00 


ClBRARV 

ii,  mi 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Accessions 


\ 


WIU-.TA/A  -  DOXEY  *  SAN  FRANCISCO 

•    /"VDCCCXCJIJI  • 


DEDICATION. 

They  still  to  me  have  constant  been, 

In  calm  and  storm,  through  thick  and  thin. 

They  've  been  with  me  in  many  a  land- 
On  mountain  wild,  on  desert  sand, 
On  meadow  green,  and  where  the  breeze 
Sings  softly  o'er  the  rolling  seas. 
They  've  stood  around  my  lonely  bed, 
And  silent  tears  of  grief  have  shed, 
When  wasting  sickness  laid  its  hand 
Upon  me  in  a  foreign  land. 

Now,  Charley,  friend,  I  do  not  know 
What  Fortune  may  on  them  bestow; 
Perhaps  they  all  will  droop  and  die, 
When  I  "in  cold  obstruction"  lie; 
Nor  do  I  know  how  they  '11  behave 
When  I  am  in  the  quiet  grave — 
If  they  will  keep  their  faces  clean, 
And  in  condition  to  be  seen, 
Whene'er  invited  they  maybe 
Into  the  cream  of  company— 
Nor  do  I  know  but  that  their  name 
May  sometimes  bring  a  blush  of  shame 
To  him  who  would  their  guardian  be 
When  they  can  look  no  more  to  me. 

Still  I,  their  author,  well  may  feel 
An  interest  in  their  future  weal, 
And  ever  while  on  earth  I  live 
Will  warmest  hand  of  friendship  give 
To  one  who  to  them  kindly  came 
With  shelter  of  an  honored  name. 

RUFUS  C.  HOPKINS. 

Francisco,  January  22,  1894. 


THE    AUTHOR'S    PREFACE. 


A>  it  is  customary  to  introduce  a  first  edition  by  a 
preface,  I  presume  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to 
do  likewise.  It  is  not  my  intention,  however,  to  make 
any  apology  to  the  public,  but  only  to  write  the  few 
words  which  I  conceive  to  be  necessary. 

These  poems  have  been  written  for  amusement  dur 
ing  the  course  of  a  long  life,  solely  to  please  myself, 
and  are  simply  records  of  varied  conditions  of  the  mind 
while  observing  the  pictures  made  by  the  lights  and 
shadows  that  fall  upon  the  ever-changing  panorama 
of  Nature.  I  have,  therefore,  no  excuses  to  offer  for 
their  defects. 

I  neither  expect  nor  desire  fame  from  the  publica 
tion  of  these  verses  ;  but  should  they  chance  to  wake 
a  smile  on  the  lips  of  Sadness,  dry  a  tear  on  the  cheek 
of  Sorrow,  cause  one  to  halt  in  a  career  of  crime,  give 
hope  to  a  despairing  soul,  or  throw  one  ray  of  light  on 
the  great  mystery  of  destiny, —  then  I  shall  not  consider 
they  have  been  in  vain. 

In  sending  them  on  this  uncertain  journey,  I  will  say, 
as  a  loving  father:  "My  children!  I  sigh  at  your  de 
parture  ;  for  you  are  going  with  bare  feet  and  uncov 
ered  heads,  with  no  capital  save  your  honest  faces. 
How  long  we  have  been  together !  how  often  we  have 


8  THE    AUTHOR'S    PREFACE. 

gathered  around  our  humble  hearth,  to  laugh  at  the 
vanities  of  the  world,  and  sigh  o'er  the  sorrows  of  man 
kind!  And  now  we  are  to  separate  —  I  to  remain  by 
the  deserted  fireside,  and  you  to  fare  forth  to  the 
world's  thoroughfares.  Farewell !  Grow  not  weary  on 
the  way,  nor  be  discouraged,  though  howling  winds 
should  cover  you  with  dust.  Travel  on!" 

RUFUS  C.  HOPKINS. 

San  Francisco,  May  12,  1894. 


INDEX. 


Page 

Dedication  —  An  Apology  to  Charles  D.  Lane  •         5 

Preface 

The  Genius  of  Progress  — California  J7 
The  Comet  and  The  Mortal 

Malinche ;  An  Aztec  Romance    .  •        3° 
The  Tree  of  "  La  Noche  Triste  " 

Epistle  to  a  Friend  [Thomas  T.  Bouldin]  .        .        81 

To  a  Withered  Rose 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Rose  —  Twenty  Years  Later  •        90 

Under  a  Cloud  V2 

The  Shadowy  Land  — Part  I.  93 

"      -Part  II.        .   '  «o 

Hymn  to  the  Angels  of  Beauty           .        .  I26 


Harmony 


128 


Losada;  A  Mexican-Indian  Tale  I29 

Man's  Heritage  of  Freedom  J59 

The  Wandering  Ghost  Of  a  Miser  164 

Lament  of  the  Guardian  of  Earth  ]7<> 

The  Gate  of  Justice     .        .  J73 

To  the  Toiling  Sons  of  Earth  i?9 
A  Fragment  —  Lines  on  the  Spirit  of  the  Times                       «        •      184 

Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University       .  l86 
The  Dying  Sinner  and  the  Confessor                                                   •      J97 

The  Sinner  Before  Saint  Peter  202 

The  Holy  Coat     ....  206 

The  Materialist  and  the  Spiritualist       .  207 

The  Ancestry  of  Man :   A  Soliloquy  220 

The  Improvement  of  the  Human  Race          .         .  222 


USJVERSIT7 


io  INDEX. 

The  Realist  and  the  Dreamer 225 

God  Is  Love!    The  Theologian  and  the  Free-Thinker       .         .  229 

Good  and  Evil.    The  Priest  and  the  Philosopher     ...  233 

An  Apology  for  the  Devil        .                 244 

The  Unpardonable  Sin         .                 246 

A  Chat  with  Horatio.    Some  Philosophic  Advice  about  Hornets  247 

Suffering 249 

"Lay  On.  Macduff!  "  251 

Compensation        .                                                   252 

A  Fragment      .                                                                            •        •  253 

Adversity       .                                  .                                          ...  254 

A  Dream  of  Erin     .....                 .                         .  256 

The  Children  of  Erin           .                         ....  260 

To  the  Genius  of  Poesy          .  261 

To  a  Picture  of  Tom  Moore       .                263 

To  the  Memory  of  Robert  Burns  264 

William  Shakespeare                                     ...                 .         .  265 
Lord  Byron       .         .                                                                            .267 

Henry  Fielding                                                                ....  268 

Westminster  Abbey  269 

To  James  Linen                     .........  270 

The  Ancient  Gael 271 

Letter  to  a  Friend                                276 

Song  to  Willie          .  277 

To  Johnnie    .....  279 

To  a  Sweet  Singer  of  the  Songs  of  Scotland       .         .  280 

Answer  to  David  Calderwood     .        .                 282 

Allopathy  and  Homeopathy             .....  285 

Gambling:    A  Defence  of  Governor  Haight      .                         .         .  287 

Woman      .                  ........  291 

Cuerudo                                                                       .....  292 

Slander      .  293 
Fashion                   .         . 


INDEX.  ii 

The  Miser  296 

Freaks  of  Fortune  297 

A  Social  Chat  with  the  Devil  303 

Prayer  of  the  Rev.  Ezekiel  Mucklewrath  308 

Uncle  Samuel's  Farm      .        .  3™ 

To  a  Land-Bird  at  Sea       .  3U 

The  Shepherd's  Lament  3*5 

Adieu  to  Thee,  Effie  3*7 

The  Broken  Heart  3*8 

Recollections  of  Childhood  3*9 

The  Wanderer's  Dream  of  Childhood    .  321 

The  Willow  Tree         ....  324 

The  Poet  at  Home  325 

To  Clara  — On  My  Fiftieth  Birthday  -      33° 

Song  to  Little  Mollie       ...  332 

To  Little  Mary  Asleep    ^   .    «  333 

To  Mary— On  Her  Fifteenth  Birthday  .'                                          334 

To  Clem        .        ."       .'"'.'       .     '  336 

On  the  Death  of  a  Poor  Young  Girl  337 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend,  Who  Died  Among  Strangers  338 

Epitaph  on  Sophie           .••    •:."..  :..•-.".. :-.,.:    .....    *  34i 

In  Memory  of  Harry  34* 

In  Memory  of  Clara    .  342 

On  the  Death  of  Dick,  a  Canary-Bird  344 

To  My  Familiar   Spirit        .  346 

On  a  Lee-Shore        .  35 1 

My  Seventieth  Birthday               .,  353 

Old  Age  and  Time  355 

Turned  Out  to  Graze  357 

The  Voices  of  Childhood        ,  366 

A  Greeting  to  Carlos  and  Miguel       ....  368 

A  Fragment— " How  long,  O  Nature,  must  I  stay?  "                                37° 

To  Ila— On  Her  Eighteenth  Birthday 37* 


12  INDEX. 

To  Ila  — On  Her  Marriage  372 

The  Old  House     .  373 

They  Have  All  Gone  Before   .        .  377 

The  Minstrel's  Last  Song  379 

I  Ml  Strike  the  Epic  Lyre  No  More       ...  381 

Death  Scene          .        .  382 

The  Two  Harps                                                               ...  383 

Old  Man  and  Death .  384 

Let  Me  Not  Sleep  In  the  Valley  Low  386 

Bones  and  the  Grave-Digger        .                         .....  388 

The  Argonauts  of  California  390 

A  Los  Mejicanos  de  California                           393 

The  Immortal  Spirit        .        .  394 

The  Hermit  and  the  Prince:    A  Lesson  of  Life         ....  396 

Drifting .  406 

Imaginary  Conversations  between  a  Student  of  Nature  and  Sages  of 

Antiquity                    407 

Conversation      I.    Student  and  Pythagoras     ....  408 

Conversation    II.    Student  and  Pythagoras                 .         .  414 

Conversation  III.    Student  and  Pythagoras     ....  424 

Conversation  IV.    Student,  Pythagoras,  and  Ancient  One  433 

Conversation    V.    Student  and  Ancient  One  443 

Conversation  VI.    Student  and  Ancient  One       .        .         .  453 

Conversation  VI  I.    Student  and  Ancient  One           ...  468 


ROSES  AND  THISTLES 


UNI7BRSIT7 


THE    GENIUS    OF    PROGRESS.* 


CALIFORNIA. 

THE  Warrior  writes  his  name  in  blood 
Where  once  fair  Art  and  Science  stood, 
And  sleeps,  accursed  by  human  groans, 
Beneath  a  monument  of  bones. 
The  Poet  leaves  a  deathless  name 
Upon  the  loftiest  peaks  of  Fame, 
Round  which  eternal  sunbeams  play, 
While  empires  rise  and  pass  away. 
The  Grecian  mount  has  echoed  long 
To  Homer's  lyre  of  epic  song, 
And  still  the  voice  of  Roman  days 
Is  heard  in  Virgil's  pastoral  lays. 
On  Albion's  moors  and  meadows  green 
Immortal  Shakspeare  still  is  seen; 
The  burning  words  of  Byron's  pen 
Still  linger  on  the  tongues  of  men; 
Hibernia's  muse  in  sorrow  weeps 
Where  Tara's  harp  in  silence  sleeps; 
And  heathery  hill  and  flowery  dell 
Still  of  the  bard  of  Scotia  tell. 

Led  by  these  beaming  stars  of  light, 
Let  me  attempt  a  daring  flight ! 
That  I,  perchance,  a  name  may  give 
To  coming  years  that  long  shall  live. 
I  '11  carve  it  on  the  eternal  rock 


*  This  poem  was  suggested  by  reading  some  years  since  a  work  on 
Geology,  by  one  Evan  Hopkins,  in  which  was  advanced  a  theory  under 
which  the  highest  type  of  the  human  race  would  probably  be  found  in  the 
northern  hemisphere  of  the  earth. — H. 


iS  THE    GENIUS    OF    PROGRESS. 

That  still  defies  the  earthquake's  shock  ! 

I  '11  write  it  on  the  loftiest  peak 

Of  hoary  mountain,  bare  and  bleak  ! 

I  '11  leave  it  on  the  sunny  plain 

Where  wave  wide  fields  of  bearded  grain  ! 

I  '11  trace  it  on  the  golden  strand 

Of  this  far-spreading,  beauteous  land 

That  looks  with  glance  so  proud  and  free 

Far  o'er  the  rolling  Western  sea ! 

Then,  come,  my  Muse  !  my  soul  inspire, 
And  tune  for  me  the  magic  lyre, 
That  I  from  mount  and  plain  may  bring 
The  Genius  of  the  land  I  sing : 

What  do  I  see  ?    A  female  form 

Borne  wildly  on  the  rising  storm ! 

A  flowing,  feathery  robe  she  wears; 

A  sacrificial  knife  she  bears; 

Her  dusky  arms  are  sprinkled  o'er 

With  purple  stains  of  human  gore, 

And  in  her  burning  eyes  I  trace 

The  Genius  of  the  Aztec  race  ! 

With  angry  brow,  and  flashing  eye 

She  points  to  where  old  ruins  lie, 

That  mark  where  once  her  temples  stood; 

And  her  grim  altars  streamed  with  blood. 

She 's  borne  away  upon  the  breeze 
That  floats  across  the  Western  seas — 
Another  form  I  now  behold, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  minstrel  old; 
She  bears  the  ancient  shield  of  Spain, 
And  chants  a  sad  Iberian  strain. 
Hark  !  to  the  wailing  song  she  sings 
To  her  wild  harp  of  broken  strings: 

SONG. 

"  No  more  by  Duero's  winding  stream 
I  '11  tread  with  step  of  pride, 


THE    GENIUS    OF   PROGRESS,  19 

Nor  sing  the  songs  of  love  again 
By  Ebro's  rolling  tide. 

'  In  stern  Asturias'  mountain  land 

No  more  of  war  I  '11  sing, 
Nor  hear  the  shining  Moorish  blade 
On  Spanish  helmet  ring. 

'  Hushed  is  Hispania's  voice  of  pride; 

Pier  days  of  power  are  o'er; 
Her  mighty  chieftains  all  are  gone; 
Her  minstrels  sing  no  more. 

'  No  longer  now  her  galleons  spread 

Upon  the  ocean  breeze 
The  proudest  banner  that  was  seen 

Upon  the  Indian  seas!  " 

With  drooping  head  she  passes  on; 
The  weeping  Genius  now  is  gone — 
But  crumbling  ruins  still  prolong 
The  echoes  of  her  wailing  song. 

And  who  is  she  that's  coming  now, 
Of  queenly  form  and  lofty  brow  ? 
Her  rosy  cheek  and  bright  blue  eye 
Tell  of  a  cold  and  wintry  sky. 
A  mountain  pine  in  snowy  field 
Is  shown  upon  her  sturdy  shield, 
And,  by  her  spear  and  Cimbric  brand, 
She  comes,  I  know,  from  Odin's  land. 

Bright  Genius  of  the  icy  North, 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  land  of  birth  ? 
What  seek'st  thou  in  this  sunny  clime 
That  ne'er  has  heard  of  Runic  rhyme  ? 

I  come  to  tell  thee,  son  of  song, 
Of  ages  past,  forgotten  long — 
And  that  I  now  may  show  to  thee 
A  page  of  dim  futurity. 


20  THE    GENIUS   OF  PROGRESS. 

"  My  cradle  was  by  mountain  streams, 

'Mid  rugged  hills  and  forests  hoar; 
My  cradle-song  the  mighty  winds 

That  swept  a  wild,  tempestuous  shore. 
My  playmates  were  the  howling  storms; 

I  sported  with  the  thunders  loud; 
My  rugged  couch  of  flinty  rock 

Was  curtained  by  the  mountain  cloud. 
The  forked  lightning's  vivid  glare 

Flashed  fiercely  on  the  brow  of  night, 
And  crimsoned  were  the  murky  clouds 

By  the  volcano's  lurid  light. 

"  But  this  was  when  the  earth  was  young; 

I  cannot  count  the  ages  o'er 
Since  first  I  saw  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  heard  the  thermal  oceans  roar! 
'T  was  in  those  ages  dim  and  dark, 

When  mightiest  thunders  shook  the  earth, 
Before  the  golden  cloud  was  seen, 

That  Nature  gave  my  spirit  birth. 
And,  nursed  'mid  such  tempestuous  scenes, 

I  learned  my  savage  strength  to  try 
'Gainst  powers  that  rent  the  heaving  earth, 

And  storms  that  swept  the  boreal  sky. 

"  But,  as  the  ages  rolled  along 

And  decked  the  earth  with  tree  and  flower, 
I  found  that  Nature's  generous  laws 

Had  given  to  me  a  loftier  power: 
The  light  of  Reason  slowly  dawned, 

And  shed  its  brightness  on  my  soul, 
And  whispering  voices  bade  me  rise 

And  Nature's  wildest  powers  control. 

"  I  looked  abroad  upon  the  earth; 
I  looked  upon  the  rolling  sea; 
And  with  exultant  pride  I  felt 

That  my  proud  empire  these  should  be  ! 


THE    GENIUS    OF  PROGRESS.  21 

"With  mountain  pine,  and  rugged  stone, 

A  dwelling  rude  I  made, 
And  from  the  dark  and  sullen  ore 

I  wrought  the  shining  blade  ! 
I  smote  the  savage  beast  of  prey, 

I  scaled  the  beetling  crag, 
And  o'er  the  wide  and  grassy  plain 

I  chased  the  bounding  stag ! 

"  And  age  on  age  thus  rudely  passed, 

When  lo  !  a  brighter  fire 
Burned  on  the  altar  of  my  soul, 

And  waked  a  new  desire. 
I  looked  again  upon  the  earth, 

And  on  the  ocean  blue, 
I  looked  upon  the  blooming  flower 

That  drank  the  morning  dew. 
My  savage  home  distasteful  grew; 

I  longed  for  brighter  things; 
I  heard  the  voice  that  softly  breathed 

The  song  that  Beauty  sings. 

"I  pruned  the  wild  and  wayward  vine; 

I  tilled  the  sunny  plain, 
And  with  a  beaming  eye  of  pride 

Beheld  the  golden  grain  ! 
I  watched  the  play  of  light  and  shade 

On  Nature's  smiling  face, 
And  learned  to  paint  the  tree  and  flower, 

And  forms  of  beauty  trace. 

"The  Column,  Frieze,  and  Capital 

I  from  the  quarries  wrought, 
And  in  the  marble's  silent  bed 

The  sleeping  Graces  sought ! 
With  tireless  hand,  the  sculptured  stone 

In  Theban  walls  I  laid, 
And  reared  on  many  a  classic  mount 

The  marble  colonnade  ! 


22  THE    GENIUS   OF  PROGRESS. 

"'Neath  Chaldea's  bright,  transparent  skies, 

I  watched  the  stars  by  night, 
And  worshipped  on  the  Persian  hills 
The  burning  orb  of  light ! 

"  I  watched  the  feathery  vapors  rise 

From  out  their  drowsy  sleep, 
And  saw  them  borne  on  breezy  wings 

Across  the  vaulted  deep. 
And  when  loud  thunders  shook  the  skies, 

I  saw  the  clouds  again 
Poured  down  upon  the  thirsty  earth 

In  showers  of  summer  rain. 

"  As  I  beheld  the  ages  roll, 
A  new  ambition  fired  my  soul  ! 
I  watched  the  course  of  Nature's  laws, 
And  longed  to  learn  the  secret  cause 
That  bade  the  starry  lamps  to  burn 
And  brought  the  seasons  in  their  turn. 

"Young  Science  came  ! — a  spirit  bright, 
Who,  with  a  magic  key  of  light, 
Unlocked  the  treasure-house  of  Mind, 
And  bade  me  seek,  if  I  would  find. 

"That  I  this  counsel  heeded  well, 
Let  History  and  Tradition  tell ! 
Go  read  the  ancient  records  o'er, 
And  pages  bright  of  modern  lore. 

"  In  ages  now  in  darkness  hid, 
I  reared  the  lofty  pyramid; 
And  records  left  that  yet  remain 
On  Persian  mount  and  Indian  plain  ! 

"  In  cavern  dark,  and  desert  lone, 
I  sought  the  fabled  magic  stone, 
Whose  touch  could  light  the  silent  urn 
And  bid  the  dust  to  life  return. 


THE    GENIUS    OF  PROGRESS.  23 

"  With  silent  seer  and  hoary  sage 
I  scanned  by  day  the  occult  page; 
And  still  beneath  the  astral  light 
I  sought  the  magic  lore  by  night. 

''Through  ages  dim  (now  quite  forgot) 
I  sought  the  charm,  but  found  it  not — 
Alchemic  science  failed  to  tell 
Of  magic  stone  or  mystic  spell. 

"  Yet  though  the  stars  all  silent  were, 

They  shed  a  light  on  me 
That  led  me  on  to  range  the  fields 

Of  bright  Astronomy ! 
With  old  Copernicus  I  watched 

The  circling  seasons  run, 
And  traced  the  rolling  planet's  path 

Around  the  central  sun  ! 
I  stood  by  Newton  when  he  cast 

His  plumb-line  in  the  deep, 
And  learned  the  laws  that  bid  the  orb 

Its  circling  orbit  keep  ! 
Saw  Franklin  chain  the  rending  bolt, 

And  clip  the  lightning's  wing, 
And  make  its  fiery,  forked  tongue 

A  quiet,  harmless  thing ! 
'T  was  I,  that  taught  laborious  Watt 

To  use  the  mighty  force 
That  drives  the  frigate  o'er  the  deep 

And  rides  the  iron  horse  ! 
'T  was  I  inspired  far-seeing  Morse 

To  teach  the  electric  fire 
To  bear  a  message  round  the  earth 

Upon  a  slender  wire  ! 

"  Now  list  to  the  sound  of  the  humming  wheel, 

And  list  to  the  thundering  forge  ! 
And  hark  to  the  neigh  of  the  iron  steed, 
As  he  drives  through  the  mountain  gorge  ! 


24  THE    GENIUS   OF  PROGRESS. 

These  are  my  servants,  and  these  are  my  slaves 

That  labor  and  toil  as  I  will; 
They  toil  all  the  day,  and  toil  all  the  night, 

And  are  fresh  and  vigorous  still. 
They  feed  on  the  wind;  they  feed  on  the  flame; 

They  feed  on  the  flash  of  the  leven; 
They  ask  not  for  rest,  for  their  fierce-throbbing  veins 

Are  coursed  by  the  lightnings  of  heaven  ! 
A  highway  they  've  made  o'er  mountain  and  plain; 

Have  sounded  the  ocean  so  deep, 
And  a  pathway  have  laid  for  the  treading  of  Thought 

Through  the  realms  where  the  dark  billows  sleep  ! 
They  bore  to  the  base  of  mountain  and  hill, 

And  seek  in  the  caverns  of  night 
The  red  golden  dust,  and  the  white  silver  ore, 

And  the  gems  that  glitter  so  bright ! 
Their  footsteps  are  heard  where  the  earthquake  treads; 

They  speak  in  the  voice  of  the  thunder; 
And  with  the  fierce  strength  they  bear  in  their  arms 

They  rend  the  dark  mountains  asunder  ! 
They  ride  on  the  breeze,  they  touch  the  soft  lute, 

And  weave  from  the  sunshine  and  shower 
The  carpet  that  covers  the  meadow  so  green 

And  the  soft,  bright  leaf  of  the  flower." 

PROPHECY. 

Strike  now  a  harp  of  bolder  string, 
And  of  the  coming  future  sing  ! 
And  prophesy  in  song  sublime 
Of  things  still  in  the  womb  of  time. 

CALIFORNIA. 

The  smiling  Genius  waves  her  hand, 
And  lo  !  I  see  a  beauteous  land — 
The  brightest  land  that  e'er  I've  seen, 
Of  vine-clad  hill  and  meadow  green. 
The  city,  town,  and  village  tell 
Of  millions  in  this  land  that  dwell; 


THE    GENIUS    OF  PROGRESS.  25 

And  cultured  field  and  fruitful  vine 
Tell  that  it  flows  with  milk  and  wine. 
Amid  the  humming  sound  of  life 
I  hear  no  voice  of  angry  strife, — 
For  smiling  Peace  and  Concord  reign 
From  mountain  top  to  sunny  plain. 
The  warrior's  sword  is  rusted  now; 
No  laurels  deck  his  haughty  brow; 
His  shining  spear  and  sounding  shield 
Now  prune  the  vine  and  till  the  field. 
Strong  Labor  now,  with  skilful  hand, 
With  wisdom  tills  the  fruitful  land, 
While  Science  woos  the  smiling  earth 
And  watches  for  her  children's  birth  ! 
Harmonious  sounds,  from  far  and  near 
Fall  sweetly  on  my  listening  ear — 
The  age  of  strife  and  blood  has  passed, 
And  Wisdom  rules  the  world  at  last. 

The  picture  fades — the  charm  is  broke, — 
And  thus  again  the  Genius  spoke: 

"  Now,  son  of  song  immortal,  go — 

And  tune  thy  harp  to  notes  sublime; 
And  sing  of  man's  far-reaching  mind 

That  shall  outlive  the  breath  of  Time  ! 
Its  empire  is  creation  wide; 

And,  borne  on  Wisdom's  wing  of  light, 
It  yet  shall  reach  the  brightest  realms 

And  sound  the  darkest  caves  of  night. 

"  Behold  the  far-off  twinkling  star 

That  lights  the  solemn,  soundless  deep! 
Go  watch  the  trembling  drops  of  dew 

That  on  the  rose's  bosom  sleep! 
And  know  that  thou  the  laws  shalt  learn 

That  formed  the  far  oft'  rolling  sphere; 
That  gilds  the  cloud,  and  paints  the  flowerr 

And  shapes  the  silent  falling  tear." 

San  Francisco,  January,  1870. 


THE  COMET  AND  THE  MORTAL. 


MORTAL. 

TELL  me,  highwayman  of  the  skies, 
Where  in  thy  wanderings  thou  hast  been  ? 

And  tell  me  of  the  rolling  orbs 
That  in  thy  travels  thou  hast  seen  ? 

And  tell  me,  wanderer,  what  thou  art — 
Sporadic  light,  without  a  place  ? 

Or  ghost  of  some  departed  world, 
Now  homeless  in  the  realms  of  space  ? 

Or  monster  of  abnormal  birth, 

Untimely  by  convulsion  hurled 
From  Nature's  all-engendering  womb, 

An  embryo  of  abortive  world  ? 

And,  like  an  outcast,  doomed  to  roam 
Through  solar  realms  and  Stygian  night, 

Until  thy  wandering  life  shall  end, 
And  thy  pale  torch  shall  lose  its  light ! 

Then,  tell  me,  wanderer  of  the  skies, 
Where  on  thy  journey  thou  hast  been  ? 

And  tell  me  of  the  rolling  orbs 
That  in  thy  travels  thou  hast  seen  ? 

COMET. 

I  'm  from  that  lonely  region  far 

Where  Darkness  dwells  and  Silence  sleeps; 
Where  solar  beams  are  never  felt, 

Nor  rolling  orb  Time's  measure  keeps. 

Where  balanced  forces  mark  the  line 
That  bounds  the  realms  of  solar  sway, 


THE    COMET  AND     THE   MORTAL.          27 

Where  laws  attractive,  shifting  turn — 
And  other  central  powers  obey. 

I  '11  tell  thee,  mortal,  what  I  saw- 
In  that  dark  realm,  so  cold  and  drear, 

Beyond  where  far  Uranus  rolls, 
And  Neptune's  still  more  wintry  sphere: 

I  saw  by  the  light  of  my  flaming  torch 

As  it  lit  up  the  solemn  gloom, 
The  shadowy  forms  of  the  wasted  worlds 

That  in  that  region  had  found  a  tomb  ! 

And  they  hung  like  phantoms  in  the  soundless  void, 

And  no  record  of  time  they  kept, — 
For  they  drank  no  life  from  the  solar  beams 

As  on  that  silent  coast  they  slept. 

These  phantoms  once  were  living  worlds  ! 

Born  of  some  glowing  orb  of  light; 
They  had  their  morn,  their  glowing  noon, 

Declining  eve,  and  dreamless  night, — 

When  they  were  cast  upon  that  shore, 

Where  they  in  slumber  long  remain, 
Until  the  eternal  laws  of  force 

Bid  them  awake  to  life  again. 

They  wake  again  !  but  not  the  same 

As  when  in  glowing  robes  of  light 
They  drank  the  rosy  beams  of  day, 

Or  gemm'd  the  ebon  brow  of  night. 

They  go  to  feed  the  wasting  fires 

Of  that  controlling  central  Power 
That  gives  its  life  to  all  that  moves, 

From  rolling  orb  to  blooming  flower  ! 

My  mission  is  to  course  the  realms 

From  central  sun  to  solar  bounds; 
And  countless  ages  have  I  passed 

In  travelling  on  these  mighty  rounds. 


28          THE    COMET   AND     Till-:    MORTAL. 

I  gather  on  the  silent  coast 

The  wrecks  of  worlds,  whose  lives  have  run; 
I  bear  them  to  the  solar  orb, 

And  give  them  to  the  glowing  sun  ! 

Again,  from  off  his  shining  skirts 

I  'm  launched  into  the  depths  of  space — 

Again,  with  burning  torch  renewed, 
I  start  upon  my  distant  race  ! 

But  now  the  time  approaches  near 
When  I  shall  leave  the  solar  plain; 

Will  sail  the  starry  deep  no  more, 
Nor  light  the  midnight  sky  again. 

All  forms  of  matter  transient  are; 

They  live  a  while  their  fleeting  day— 
They  have  their  youth  and  their  decline, 

And  then,  by  change,  they  pass  away. 

Thus  I'm  approaching  now  mine  end; 

This  circling  journey  is  the  last — 
In  which  upon  elliptic  curve 

My  perihelion  will  be  passed. 

When  next  I  seek  the  solar  beams, 
From  my  long  journey  I  will  rest 

Within  the  burning  orb  of  day, 
And  die  upon  his  glowing  breast. 

From  whence  I  '11  be  sent  forth  again  — 
Perchance,  to  mould  the  drop  of  dew, 

To  paint  the  golden  clouds  of  eve, 
Or  give  the  rose  its  blushing  hue. 

Thus  change  is  writ  on  all  that  moves, 
From  mightiest  orb  to  tiniest  thing; 

From  oak  that  shades  the  mountain  side 
To  flower  that  decks  the  breast  of  spring. 

The  sun  himself  sha\\  lose  his  light; 
The  lamps  of  night  shall  cease  to  burn, 


THE    COMET  AND     THE   MORTAL.          29 

And,  by  the  eternal  laws  of  change, 
To  other  forms  of  being  turn. 

Now  farewell,  mortal !  when  again 

I  seek  the  realms  of  solar  day, 
Thou,  with  all  the  sons  of  earth, 

Wilt  surely  long  have  passed  away. 

San  Francisco,  1874. 


MALINCHE; 

AN    AZTEC    ROMANCE. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  following  dramatic  representation  is  taken  from  the  account  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico,  as  given  by  Bernal  Diaz,  the  quaint  old  chronicler 
of  HernandoCortez,  whom  he  accompanied  on  his  expedition  to  Mexico. 

Hernando  Cortex,  with  his  adventurous  companions,  sailed  from  the 
harbor  of  Havana  without  the  knowledge  of  his  father  in-law,  the  Gover 
nor  of  Cuba,  with  whom  he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  on  friendly 
terms. 

Touching  at  the  island  of  Tabasco,  Cortez  rescued  from  bondage  Malin- 
rhe,  known  in  Spanish  romance  as  Dona  Marina.  She  accompanied  him 
through  Mexico,  acting  in  the  capacity  of  an  interpreter,  in  the  meantime 
falling  desperately  in  love  with  him,  Bernal  Diaz  remarking  that  she  soon 
learned  the  Castilian  tongue,  for  with  her  it  was  the  language  of  love. 

The  story,  though  told  in  verse  and  somewhat  embellished,  substan 
tially  corresponds  with  the  account  as  given  by  Bernal  Diaz. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONsE. 

SPANIARDS. 

HERNANDO  CORTEZ,  Conqueror  of  Mexico. 

PEDRO  DE  ALVARADO,         )     f 

GONZALO  DE  SANDOVAL,    \  ***•**•******,««  Condons 

ALONZO  DE  AVII.A.  J 

OLMEDO,  a  Priest. 

CHIEF  PILOT. 

LOOKOUT. 

SAILORS,  SOLDIERS,  AND  SERVANTS. 

AZTECS. 

MONTEZUMA,  Emperor  of  Mexico. 

CUITLAHUA,  Brother  of  Monteziima. 

TLASCALAN  CHIEF. 

HIGH  PRIEST. 

MALINCHE,  a  Princess  (in  lor,-  -.nth  Cortez). 

TAZMALA,  her  Companion. 

SPIRIT  OF  MALINCHE'S  FATHER. 

PRIESTS,  WARRIORS,  MAIDENS,  AND  VICTIMS. 

S<  IM  :     //a:-(Uia;  on  board  ship ;  and  in  Mexico. 


MA  LIN  CHE,  31 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. — Casino  in  the  Havana;  GONZALO  DE  SANDOVAL 
and  ALONZO  DE  AVILA  seated  at  a  table. 

AVILA  (to  servant}. 

Bring  us  wine,  Diego, — the  best  you  have 
Of  bright  Andalusia's  richest  vintage  ! 
We  '11  drink,  Gonzalo,  to  our  absent  loves 
And  to  the  Grand  Captain's  bold  adventure. 
Come,  fill  a  brimming  cup  !  and  pledge  with  me 
The  fairest  maid  that  dwells  by  Arno's  stream — 
The  sweet  Maria!     Behold  her  picture  ! 
Hast  ever  seen  a  more  enchanting  face  ? 

SANDOVAL. 

'Tis  passing  fair;  but  more,  in  sooth,  I  love 
To  look  upon  an  Andalusian  face, 
Than  that  of  fairest  maid  that  ever  dwelt 
By  Arno's  stream,  or  gathered  dewy  flowers 
Upon  the  vine-clad  hills  of  sunny  France. 

Bright  are  the  maids  of  Gallic  blood; 

Italia's  damsels  fair  to  see; 
But,  for  the  fiery  glance  of  love, 

The  Andalusian  maid  for  me! 
The  dark-eyed  maid  of  Andaluz  ! 
The  bright-eyed  maid  of  Andaluz  ! 
Aye,  for  the  burning  glance  of  love, 
Give  me  the  maid  of  Andaluz  ! 

Her  cheek  is  like  the  blushing  rose; 

There  's  honey  on  her  ruby  lips; 
And  wildly  throbs  her  heaving  breast 

When  love  their  mad'ning  nectar  sips. 
The  Andalusian  maid  for  me  ! 
The  Andalusian  maid  for  me  ! 
With  glowing  breast  and  melting  eye, 
The  Andalusian  maid  for  me ! 


32  MALINCHE. 

AVI  LA. 

Bravo,  Gonzalo  !  a  good  song  and  well  sung — 

But  more  I  love  the  dewy  spring 
Than  summer's  fierce  and  fiery  breath: 

The  one  brings  gentle,  sweet  repose; 
The  other  oft  is  fraught  with  death. 

Then  give  to  me  the  gentle  face, 
And  I  '11  content  and  happy  be; 

No  fierce  and  burning  glance  would  I, — 
The  gentle  eye  of  love  for  me  ! 

So  you  can  have  the  fiery  eyes 
To  wake  you  from  your  midnight  dream; 

But  give  to  me  the  gentle  maid 
That  dwells  by  Arno's  silver  stream. 

Aye,  give  to  me  the  gentle  face, 
And  I  '11  content  and  happy  be; 

I  do  not  love  the  burning  glance, — 
The  gentle  eye  of  love  for  me  ! 

But  enough  of  love  and  wine,  Gonzalo! 
We  must  to  work — for  we  have  much  to  do 
Ere  we  may  meet  our  absent  loves  again 
Beneath  the  Andalusian  skies,  or  on 
The  sunny  banks  of  Arno's  silver  stream. 
Dost  know  the  hour  at  which  Hernando  Cortez 
His  anchor  weighs,  and  to  the  ocean  breeze 
Gives  the  proudest  banner  that  e'er  has  led 
The  conquering  arms  of  Spain  ? 

SANDOVAL. 

When  from  the  land  the  breeze  to  seaward  sets, 
The  fleet  will  sail.  I  have  the  Admiral's  orders 
To  be  that  hour  aboard. 

AVI  LA. 

'Tis  well;  we  there  will  meet.     Now  let  us  take 
A  farewell  cup  of  Andalusian  wine — 
With  hope  that  we  may  meet  again 
Beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  Spain. 


MALINCHE.  33 

SCENE  II. — On  board  the  Admiral' s  ship. 

PILOT. 

Pipe,  boatswain!  pipe  the  cheering  strain 
That  calls  to  heave  the  anchor-chain! 
From  landward  now  the  mountain  breeze 
Blows  softly  o'er  the  rippling  seas; 
So,  boatswain,  pipe  the  cheering  strain 
That  calls  to  heave  the  anchor-chain! 
\_Boatsiuain   blows  his  whistle ;   sailors  heave  on  capstan .] 

ONE  VOICE. 
Heave  O!  heave  O!  heave  ahead! 

ALL. 
Roly,  boly,  roly  O! 

ONE    VOICE. 

Heave  the  anchor  from  its  bed  ! 

ALL. 
Roly,  boly,  roly  O! 

ONE    VOICE. 

Heave  O!  heave  again! 

ALL. 

Roly,  boly,  roly  O! 
Heave  upon  the  anchor-chain, 

Roly,  boly,  roly  O! 
O'er  the  rolling  seas  we  go 
To  the  land  of  Mexico! 
[Enter  ALVARADO,  SANDOVAL,  AVILA  and  OLMEDO.] 

OLMEDO. 
Don  Pedro,  is  the  anchor  weighed  ? 

ALVARADO. 

The  anchor  's  up,  and  we  are  off  to  sea! 

OLMEDO. 

Gracias  a  Dios  ! 

May  San  Antonio  give  us  breezes  fair! 
[Enter  CORTEZ.] 


34  MALINi  III . 

COKI  1  •/. 

\\V11  met,  brave  comrades! 
To-morrow,  ere  the  sun  shall  gild  the  East, 
We'll  be  away  upon  the  rolling  deep; 
Free  as  the  bird  that  skims  the  crested  wave, 
And  daring  as  the  eagle  in  his  flight. 

ALL. 
Aye;  we  Ml  be  as  free  as  the  ocean  winds! 

CORTEZ. 
Sons  of  proud  Iberian  sires, 

Of  Hispania's  noblest  blood  ! 
Warriors  on  the  battle-field, 

Seamen  on  the  rolling  flood  ! 
Heroes  of  a  hundred  fights — 
In  Asturias'  mountain  land, 
On  the  sunny  Gallic  plains, 

And  on  Afric's  burning  sand — 
Let  us,  ere  we  leave  this  shore, 

Plight  the  proud  hidalgo's  word 
That  each  will  be  as  bravely  true 
As  is  his  bright  Toledo  sword  ! 
[All  draw  their  szvords.] 

CHORUS. 

By  the  hiked  cross  we  swear 
That,  where'er  on  earth  we  are  — 
On  the  wild  and  rolling  main; 
On  the  arid  desert  plain; 
By  the  watch-fire  burning  bright; 
In  the  dark,  tempestuous  night; 
Where  the  tide  of  battle  swells, 
When  the  brazen  trumpet  tells 
That  the  fight  is  lost  or  won, 
And  the  ghastly  strife  is  done, 
We  will  by  each  other  stand — 
Heart  to  heart !  and  hand  to  hand! 
With  our  Chief  we  '11  stand  or  fall, 
So  swear  we  one — so  swear  we  all! 


MALINCHE.  35 

By  the  cross's  sacred  name; 
By  our  hopes  of  deathless  fame; 
By  all  that  now  on  earth  we  love; 
By  all  we  hope  in  heaven  above — 
With  our  Chief,  we  '11  stand  or  fall; 
So  swear  we  one — so  swear  we  all ! 
\_All  kneel  and  kiss  their  cross-hilted  swords.] 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — Off  the  Coast  of  Mexico  ;  snow-clad  peak  of 
Orizaba  visible  on  the  distant  horizon. 

LOOKOUT  (in  maintop}. 
Land  ho  !     Land  ho  ! 
PILOT. 
Whereaway  ?    Whereaway  ? 

LOOKOUT. 

Two  points  upon  the  larboard  bow, 
Just  where  the  sun  is  setting  now. 

PILOT  (to  helmsman}. 
Port  your  helm!     Steady! — So! 

( To  watch. ) 

Let  the  weather  braces  go- 
Lower  topsail ! 
Clew  up  mainsail ! 
(To  Admiral's  page.} 
Knock  at  the  Admiral's  cabin  door, 
And  tell  him  that  we  make  the  shore. 

[Enter  CORTEZ,  ALVARADO,  SANDOVAL,  AVILA,  OLMEDO 
and  soldiers.  ] 

CORTEZ. 

What  make  you,  pilot,  of  the  land? 

PILOT. 
A  level  beach  of  arid  sand. 


36  MALINCHE. 

CORTEZ. 

What  of  the  weather?    Does  it  promise  fair? 

PILOT. 

The  fleecy  clouds  that  softly  lie 
Upon  the  tropic,  azure  sky, 
Tell  that  to-morrow  will  be  fair — 
As  brightest  days  of  summer  are. 

CORTEZ. 

'Tis  well.     We  '11  anchor  here,  and  wait 
The  gathering  of  the  scattered  fleet, 
And  with  the  morning  breeze  we  Ml  land 
In  some  safe  port  upon  the  strand. 

OLMEDO. 

Thanks  to  San  Antonio  for  the  breezes 
Which  us  have  wafted  to  this  sandy  shore; 
And  may  he  still  protect  us  on  the  land, 
Until  the  Christian  cross  shall  planted  be 
Upon  the  altars  of  the  heathen  gods. 

CHORUS. 
Then  thanks  to  the  Saint 

For  the  swift-winged  breeze 
That  bore  us  across 

The  wide,  rolling  seas; 
Still  be  he  our  guide, 

And  still  by  us  stand 
In  the  perils  we  '11  meet 

In  yon  wild,  savage  land. 
Still  be  he  our  guide, 

And  still  by  us  stand 
In  the  perils  we  '11  meet 

In  yon  wild,  savage  land. 

OLMEDO. 

Benditos  qire  seais,  hijos  mios  ! 
[Ex-it  OLMEDO.] 


MALINCHE.  37 

SANDOVAL. 

Adios  to  the  song  !  adios  to  the  dance  ! 

Adios  to  the  wine-cup!  the  maiden's  bright  glance! 

The  soldier  has  crossed  o'er  the  wide,  rolling  main, 

Perhaps  ne'er  to  see  Havana  again! 

Perhaps  ne'er  to  see  Havana  again! 

Adios  to  his  loves!  adios  to  his  fears! 

Adios  to  his  smiles!  adios  to  his  tears! 

The  soldier  must  think  of  Havana  no  more, 

Or  his  sweetheart  that  dwells  on  the  far  Cuban  shore! 

Or  his  sweetheart  that  dwells  on  the  far  Cuban  shore! 

CHORUS. 

Adios  to  the  song!  adios  to  the  dance! 
Adios  to  the  wine-cup!  the  maiden's  bright  glance! 
The  soldier  has  crossed  o'er  the  wide,  rolling  main, 
Perhaps  ne'er  to  see  Havana  again! 
The  soldier  has  crossed  o'er  the  wide,  rolling  main, 
Perhaps  ne'er  to  see  Havana  again! 

CORTEZ. 

Pass  round  the  cup! 

Fill  to  the  beaker's  brim,  and  let  us  drink 
A  health  to  fair  Havana  and  old  Spain. 
Drink  all!    Let  each  man  wet  his  lips! 

[  Wine  cups  passed  among  the  sailors  and  soldiers.  \ 

Here  's  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 

To  the  land  of  love  and  of  ruby  wine! 

Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 

On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 

So  drink  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 

To  the  land  of  love  and  of  ruby  wine! 

Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 

On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 

CHORUS. 

We  '11  drink  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 
To  the  land  of  love  and  of  ruby  wine! 


38  MALINCHE. 

Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 
On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 
Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 
On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 

CORTEZ. 

Perchance,  ne'er  again  'neath  the  skies  of  Spain 
The  friends  of  our  youth  we  will  meet  again; 
And  on  the  sunny  shore  of  Cuba  no  more 
May  list  to  the  sound  of  the  ocean's  roar! 

So  drink  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 

To  the  land  of  love  and  of  ruby  wine! 

Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 

On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 

CHORUS. 

Aye,  drink  to  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine! 
To  the  land  of  love  and  of  ruby  wine! 
Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 
On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 
Where  the  maids  are  sweet  as  the  flower  that  grows 
On  the  banks  where  the  winding  Ebro  flows! 


SCENE  II. —  The  next  morning.  Natives  gathered  in 
groups  on  the  beach,  watching  the  Spaniards  coming  ashore 
in  their  boats. 

FIRST  NATIVE. 

Who  can  the  fair-browed  strangers  be  ? 
Come  they  from  out  the  air,  where  dwell  the  gods  ? 

SECOND  NATIVE. 

In  winged  boats,  from  off  the  sea  they  came; 

I  saw  them  yester-eve  at  set  of  sun 

Fold  their  white  wings,  as  if  to  rest  from  flight. 

FIRST  NATIVE. 

They  must  be  gods,  or  children  of  the  sun; 
And  may  have  come  in  wrath  to  us  destroy. 


MALINCHE. 


39 


[A  gun  fired.  Disperse  savages  in  dismay.  Enter  SANDO 
VAL,  AVILA,  and  followers,  who  plant  cross  and  banners 
in  the  ground,  and  erect  a  temporary  altar.  Natives  in  the 
distance  watching  proceedings  luith  wondering  curiosity. 
Then  enter  CORTEZ,  ALVARADO,  OLMEDO,  and  soldiers, 
amid  the  firing  of  cannon  and  martial  music.  ~\ 

OLMEDO 
(handing  CORTEZ  a  blood-stained  banner  bearing  the  sign 

of  the  cross], 
Descendant  of  crusading  knights 

Who  trod  the  plains  of  Palestine, 
Who  bear  to-day  the  proudest  names 

Upon  historic  pages  seen — 
Take  this  banner,  stained  with  blood 

Of  many  a  gallant  Christian  knight 
Who  fell  upon  Sevilla's  plains 

And  on  Asturias'  mountain  height! 
It  oft  has  led  Spain's  gallant  sons 

Upon  the  bloody  battle-field, 
Where  Moslem  blade  and  Moslem  spear 

Were  shivered  on  the  Spanish  shield! 
Then  take  this  banner,  stained  with  blood, 

Lone  remnant  of  crusading  wars, 
And  see  that  thou  e'er  faithful  be 

To  the  most  sacred  sign  it  bears! 

CHORUS. 
Viva,  Cortez!  Hernan  Cortez! 

The  noblest  son  of  Spanish  blood 
That  ever  won  fair  lady's  smile 

Or  in  the  front  of  battle  stood! 
Viva,  Cortez!  Viva,  Cortez! 

The  noblest  son  of  Spanish  blood 
That  ever  won  fair  lady's  smile 

Or  in  the  front  of  battle  stood! 
We  give  our  hearts  and  hands  to  thee, 

And  swear  eternal  fealty. 
We  give  our  hearts  and  hands  to  thee, 

And  swear  eternal  fealty. 

Viva,  Cortez!    Viva,  Cortez! 


40  MALIXCHE. 

CORTEZ. 

Sons  of  proud,  imperial  Spain! 

Alone  upon  this  shore  we  stand, 
Far  from  the  fruitful  olive  groves 

That  deck  our  beauteous  native  land. 

Before  us  lies  an  empire  wide, 
Where  we  may  win  immortal  fame; 

But  if  we/<n7,  and  cowards  prove, 
Behind  us  lies  eternal  shame. 

We  must  succeed,  or  we  are  lost! 
So  we  must  win  at  any  cost! 
Defeated — and  no  power  can  save 
From  shame  eternal,  but  the  grave. 

Then  let 's  destroy  our  sheltering  fleet, 
And  thus  cut  off  all  base  retreat! 
Like  heroes,  then,  alone  we'll  stand, 
And  win  an  empire  on  the  land! 

What  say  ye,  soldiers  ?    Shall  we  give 
Our  galleons  to  the  fiery  flame. 
And  in  this  distant,  unknown  land, 
Win  honor,  wealth,  and  deathless  fame  ? 

CHORUS. 
We  '11  give  to  the  flame  the  mast  and  the  sail! 

The  mast  and  the  sail 

We  '11  give  to  the  demon  of  flame! 

The  mast  and  the  sail, 

The  mast  and  the  sail, 

We  '11  give  to  the  demon  of  flame! 

With  our  galleons  gone,  we'll  stand  all  alone- 
We  '11  stand  all  alone, 

Like  a  rock  begirt  by  the  sea! 
We'll  stand  all  alone, 
We  '11  stand  all  alone, 

Like  a  rock  begirt  by  the  sea! 

Then,  give  to  the  flame  the  mast  and  the  sail! 
The  mast  and  the  sail, 


MALINCHE.  41 

Aye,  give  to  the  demon  of  flame! 

The  mast  and  the  sail, 

The  mast  and  the  sail, 
Give  «//to  the  demon  of  flame! 

SCENE    III.  —  Another  part  of  the  beach.      The  tent  of 

CORTEZ. 

[Enter  MALINCHE.] 

This  hour  Hernando  bade  me  seek  his  tent; 
Yet  comes  he  not. 

As  the  bird  on  the  bough  awaits  for  its  mate, 
Malinche,  with  love  for  Hernando,  will  wait! 
For  now  she  is  free  as  the  birds  that  sing, 
And  the  breeze  that  fans  the  bosom  of  spring! 
Yes,  now  she  is  free  as  the  winds  of  the  sea, — 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 

No  more  will  she  shed  the  tear  of  the  slave. 
Nor  long  for  repose  in  the  sleep  of  the  grave; 
The  sunshine  has  come,  the  tempest  is  o'er, — 
Malinche  will  weep  in  bondage  no  more! 
For  now  she  is  free  as  the  winds  of  the  sea, — 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 

As  the  flower  looks  up  to  the  bright,  beaming  sun, 
When  the  tempest  has  ceased  and  the  thunder  is  done,. 
Malinche.  with  love,  Hernando  will  meet, 
Will  kiss  his  fair  brow  and  sit  at  his  feet! 
And  while  she  is  free  as  the  winds  of  the  sea, 
With  the  love  of  Hernando,  she  happy  will  be! 
With  the  love  of  Hernando,  she  happy  will  be! 

[Enter  TAZMALA.] 

Has  Tazmala  seen  the  fair-browed  chieftain — 
He  who  leads  the  strange  and  bearded  warriors  ? 

TAZMALA. 

Aye,  Malinche;  I  saw  him  as  I  came 

In  converse  with  his  bearded  warrior  chiefs. 

^4*. 


42  M.  \I.I\CHE. 

And  I  trembled,  Malinche,  like  the  bird 
When  'tis  chased  by  the  fierce  mountain  vulture1 
Fear'st  thou  not  this  fair-browed  man,  Malinche, 
Whose  eye  is  like  the  eagle's,  and  who  calls 
The  lightning  and  the  thunder  to  his  aid  ? 

MALINCHE. 

Does  the  twining  vine  fear  the  rugged  oak  ? 

The  little  mountain  flower  the  sheltering  rock  ? 

The  bird  the  leafy  tree  that  hides  its  nest? 

No;  nor  does  Malinche  fear  the  stranger, 

But  clings  to  him  as  the  vine  to  the  oak, 

And  loves  him  as  the  flower  loves  the  sunbeam,— 

For  from  hard  bondage  he  has  set  her  free. 

TAZMALA. 

But,  Malinche,  he  is  thy  people's  foe! 
Love  for  him  will  anger  the  avenging  gods! 

MALINCHK. 

Cease,  Tazmala! 

For  not  love  of  country,  nor  of  people, 
Nor  anger  of  avenging  gods  can  quench 
The  love  I  bear  Hernando.     But  he  comes! 
I  would  be  alone. 

TAZMALA. 

Beware  of  the  stranger,— 

Oh,  Malinche,  beware! 
His  eye  is  the  eagle's, 

Though  his  brow  it  is  fair; 
Then  beware,  Malinche, — 

Of  the  stranger,  beware! 
With  the  eye  of  the  eagle 

And  the  brow  so  fair, — 
Of  the  fair-browed  stranger  beware! 

He  comes  from  afar 
O'er  the  wide,  rolling  sea; 

He  knows  not  thy  people, 
He  's  a  stranger  to 


MALINCHE.  43 

Then  beware,  Malinche,  — 

Of  the  stranger,  beware! 
With  the  eye  of  the  eagle 

And  the  brow  so  fair,  — 
Of  the  fair-browed  stranger  beware! 


MALINCHE. 

As  the  bird  on  the  bough  awaits  for  its  mate, 
Malinche,  with  love  for  Hernando,  will  wait; 
For  now  she  is  free  as  the  birds  that  sing, 
And  the  breeze  that  fans  the  bosom  of  spring! 
Yes,  now  she  is  free  as  the  winds  of  the  sea,  — 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 
As  the  winds  of  the  sea,  Malinche  is  free! 

[Enter  CORTEZ.] 
CORTEZ. 

Thou  art  here,  Malinche? 

MALINCHE. 

Thou  didst  bid  me  come,  Hernando; 
Malinche  ne'er  forgets. 

CORTEZ. 

Sit  thee  here,  Malinche, 
And  tell  me  of  thy  childhood's  years. 

MALINCHE. 

My  father  was  a  prince  of  royal  blood 
And  ruled  the  fair  Province  of  Panilla. 
I  was  his  only  child,  and  me  he  loved 
As  the  sunbeam  loves  the  blooming  flower! 
Ere  I  had  seen  six  summers  pass,  he  died 
And  left  me  to  a  cruel  mother's  care.  — 
She  wed  my  father's  bitterest  foe;  and  when 
A  son  was  born  to  her,  that  he  might  take 
The  heritage  my  father  left  to  me, 
My  mother  sold  me  to  Tabascan  traders, 
Where  I  was  held  in  bondage  by  a  chief 
Until  rescued  by  the  generous  stranger. 


44  M.  \LINCHE. 

CORTEZ. 

Hast  ever  loved,  Malinche  ? 

MALINCHE. 

I  loved  my  father,  as  the  blooming  flower 
Loves  the  bright  sun;  and  in  my  nightly  dreams 
I  ever  see  his  smiling  face,  and  hear 
A  loving  voice  that  calls,  "  Malinche!  " 

CORTEZ. 

Naught  else,  Malinche,  hast  thou  ever  loved  ? 

MALINCHE. 

I  've  loved  the  bright  sun!  I  've  loved  the  bright  shower! 
The  green,  leafy  grove,  and  the  fresh-blooming  flower! 
I  've  loved  the  bright  birds,  as  sweetly  they  sing 
While  building  their  nests  in  the  days  of  the  spring! 

I  've  loved  the  bright  stars  that  shine  in  the  night! 
The  pale  silver  moon,  with  her  garments  of  light! 
I  've  loved  to  list  to  the  soft  evening  breeze, 
As  gently  it  whispered  through  the  green,  leafy  trees! 

All  these  have  I  loved!  for  they  all  seemed  to  tell 
Of  a  bright,  sunny  land  where  Malinche  may  dwell; 
Where  souls  ne'er  have  sighed,  nor  hearts  e'er  have  bled, 
Nor  tears  of  the  slave  have  ever  been  shed. 

CORTEZ. 

But  is  there  not  some  bright  Tabascan  youth 
Who  holds  Malinche's  heart  in  bondage  ? 

MALINCHE. 

The  moon  has  not  thrice  put  off  her  silver  robe 
Since,  in  my  dreams,  my  father  stood  before  me; 
And  at  his  side  a  fair-browed  stranger  stood, 
Who  gazed  upon  me  with  a  loving  smile. 
My  father  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  mine  he  to  the  stranger  gave,  and  said: 
"  Protect  the  orphan  of  an  Indian  chief 
And  he  will  ever  be  thy  faithful  friend, — 
Will  by  thee  in  battle  stand,  and  lead  thee  on 
To  victory  'gainst  thy  foes." 


MALINCHE.  45 

CORTEZ. 

Does  Malinche  love  me  ? 

MALINCHE. 

Aye,  as  the  rose-bud  loves  the  morning  sun! 

So  Malinche  loves  the  fair-browed  stranger 

Who,  in  her  dreams,  she  saw.  and  whose  strong  arm 

Set  her  from  Tabascan  bondage  free. 

As  the  flower  that  blooms  when  the  sunshine  is  bright 
Will  fold  up  its  leaves  in  the  shadows  of  night, 
The  day  to  Malinche  as  darkness  would  be 
But  for  her  sweet  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 
The  day  to  Malinche  as  darkness  would  be 
But  for  her  sweet  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 
For  she  lives  in  her  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 
She  but  lives  in  her  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 

Like  a  storm-beaten  flower,  in  dust  she  would  lie; 
Like  a  rudely  plucked  rose,  would  wither  and  die; 
More  wretched  by  far  than  the  down-trodden  slave 
Who  sighs  for  repose  in  the  sleep  of  the  grave; 
More  wretched  by  far  than  the  down-trodden  slave 
Who  sighs  for  repose  in  the  sleep  of  the  grave; 
For  she  lives  in  her  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 
She  but  lives  in  her  love,  Hernando,  for  thee! 

CORTEZ. 

Knowest  thou,  Malinche,  I  am  wed  to  one 
Who  dwells  beyond  the  sea  ? 

MALINCHE. 

She  does  not  love  thee  as  Malinche  loves — 
The  swallow  does  not  leave  its  mate;  the  flower 
Forever  turns  its  breast  toward  the  sun, 
And  when  he  sinks  behind  the  darkened  West 
It  folds  its  leaves  in  sadness.     No;  she  loves  not 
As  Malinche  loves,  or  she  'd  be  with  thee  now! 

CORTEZ. 

Knowest  thou,  Malinche,  that  my  gods  forbid 
That  thou  shouldst  love  me,  save  as  a  sister? 


5  MALINCHE. 

MALINCHE. 

Can  thy  gods  forbid  the  bright  sun  to  shine? 

The  flowers  to  bloom  ?    The  birds  to  build  their  nests 

And  rear  their  young  in  the  sunny  days  of  spring? 

Can  they  forbid  the  streams  to  seek  the  sea  ? 

Can  they  forbid  the  summer  clouds  to  pour 

Their  gentle  showers  upon  the  thirsty  earth  ? 

No;  nor  can  they  forbid  Malinche's  eyes 

To  look  with  love  upon  the  fair-browed  stranger, 

As  looks  the  flower  toward  the  glorious  sun! 

Go  tell  the  sweet  rose  to  close  its  bright  leaves 
When  the  dewdrops  of  morning  are  shining; 

Go  tell  the  soft  zephyr  to  fold  its  light  wings 
When  the  day  in  the  West  is  declining; 

Yes,  tell  the  soft  zephyr  to  fold  its  light  wings 
When  the  day  in  the  West  is  declining! 

But  tell  not  Malinche  to  close  her  young  eyes 
To  the  shrine  where  her  spirit  is  turning, 

Nor  bid  her  to  quench  the  bright  flame  of  love 
That  deep  in  her  bosom  is  burning; 

No,  bid  her  not  quench  the  bright  flame  of  love 
That  deep  in  her  bosom  is  burning! 

The  sun  that  gilds  with  light  the  towering  palm, 
Scorns  not  to  shine  upon  the  humblest  flower. 
Oh,  then,  let  not  Hernando  steel  his  heart 
Against  Malinche's  love  ! 

[MALINCHE  kneels  to  CORTEZ.] 

CORTEZ. 

Rise,  maiden  !  and  hear  me  swear  : 
By  yon  glorious  orb  of  light! 
By  the  beaming  stars  of  night! 
By  my  father's  honored  name! 
By  my  mother's  spotless  fame!  — 
By  a  proud  hidalgo's  word! 
By  his  ne'er  dishonored  sword! 
I  will  ever  cherish  thee, 
And  thy  firm  protector  be! 


MALINCHE.  47 


For,  by  the  living  God  of  Love, 
And  all  the  mighty  Powers  above, 
Thou  art  mine  —  and  I  am  thine  — 
By  eternal  laws  divine  ! 


\_Enter  FATHER  OLMEDO.] 
Now,  by  San  Pedro,  I  must  learn  the  truth 
Of  this  report  which  I  of  late  have  heard 
Concerning  Cortez  and  the  Indian  maid! 
If  it  be  true,  I  '11  put  a  stop  thereto  — 
Else  much  dishonor  will  on  Cortez  fall, 
And  a  great  scandal  on  the  Holy  Church. 
He  comes.     I  '11  question  him. 

[Re-enter  CORTEZ.] 
Don  Hernando,  is  it  true,  as  'tis  said, 
That  thou,  who  bearest  the  banners  of  the  cross 
Hast  made  alliance  with  an  Indian  maid, 
Regardless  of  the  holy  Christian  laws 
And  the  high  duties  to  the  Church  you  owe  ? 

CORTEZ. 

Think  not,  holy  father,  that  I  disregard 
The  holy  Christian  laws,  or  do  forget 
That  I  'm  of  the  hidalgos'  noble  blood. 
The  Indian  maid  of  whom  you  speak  I  love! 
You  need  not  ask  me  why,  —  I  cannot  tell; 
Nor  do  I  seek  to  learn  the  reason  why. 
The  sunbeam  seeks  the  rose,  and  warms  its  breast, 
Bids  it  unfold  its  blushing  leaves  in  beauty 
And  give  its  fragrance  to  the  morning  air. 
Great  Nature  bids  the  sunbeam  seek  the  rose, 
And  Nature  bids  me  love  the  Indian  maid  ! 

OLMEDO. 

Dost  thou  forget,  Hernando,  that  marriage 
Is  a  holy  rite,  and  must  be  sanctioned 
By  the  Church,  or  else  it  is  adulterous  ? 


4s  J/.//./AV  •///;. 

CORTEZ. 

I  little  know  of  theologic  creed; 
My  life  I  've  passed  amid  the  wildest  scenes 
Of  blood  and  battle,  and  little  time  I  've  had 
To  learn  the  lore  that  's  in  the  cloister  taught. 
But  this  I  know  :  No  marriage  unsanctioned 
By  great  Nature's  laws  can  e'er  be  sacred  made 
By  sacramental  rite  of  holy  Church. 

OLMEDO. 

Hold  !  Hernando,  hold  !     Peril  not  thy  soul 
By  giving  speech  to  such  foul  heresies  ! 

CORTEZ. 

If,  Father,  it  be  heresy  to  love, 

Then  is  all  Nature  guilty  of  the  crime, — 

For,  by  the  laws  of  Nature,  all  things  love: 

Two  golden  clouds,  when  day  was  done, 
Hung  softly  o'er  the  setting  sun, 
Their  rosy  fringes  kissed  —  and  then 
One  cloud  was  seen  where  two  had  been! 

Two  crystal  drops,  at  dawn  of  day, 
Upon  a  rose's  bosom  lay; 
A  wooing  breeze  disturbed  their  rest— 
And  then  they  mingled  on  its  breast! 

A  whispering  zephyr,  wandering  round, 
Awoke  two  chords  of  dulcet  sound; 
The  mingling  tones  upon  the  strings 
Were  sweet  as  when  an  angel  sings! 

Two  beings  meet,  as  fresh  and  bright 
As  rosebuds  bathed  in  morning  light; 
Their  bosoms  throb  —  and  on  their  lips 
Love  then  the  sweetest  nectar  sips! 

And  //i is  is  marriage  —  this  alone 
As  such  to  Love  Divine  is  known; 
Aught  else,  whate'er  may  be  the  rite, 
Is  foulest  crime  in  Nature's  sight! 


MA  L  INCH E.  49 

So,  Father,  cease  your  counsels  vain;  for 

Had  I  Al  Sirat's  bridge  to  cross, 
With  Acheron's  fiery  gulf  below, 

Still  would  I  love  the  Indian  maid 
And  take  the  chance  of  endless  woe. 
[Exit  CORTEZ.] 

OLMEDO. 

(crossing  himself,  and  raising  his  hands  in  holy  horror}. 
Santa  Maria!  what  wicked  madness! 
As  Don  Hernando  will  not  list  to  me, 
I  '11  find  the  Indian  maid,  Malinche, 
And  try  to  wake  within  her  breast  desire 
To  seek  again  her  native  home  and  tribe. 
If  she  give  not  to  me  a  listening  ear, 
Woe  to  Hernando's  soul!     Hither  she  comes. 

\_Re-enler  MALINCHE.] 
Fair  Indian  maiden,  wouldst  thou  return 
To  thy  home,  thy  people,  and  thy  native  land  ? 

MALINCHE. 

I  have  no  home,  but  with  the  one  I  love, — 
The  generous  stranger  who  from  bondage  saved 
The  orphan  maid, — the  brave  Hernando! 

OLMEDO. 

But,  maiden,  thy  love  for  him  is  mortal  sin; 
'Twill  plunge  the  souls  of  both  in  endless  ruin! 

MALINCHE. 

I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  mortal  sin; 
And  as  for  endless  ruin,  perhaps  you  mean 
Such  anguish  as  the  Indian  maiden  felt 
In  the  cruel  bondage  of  Tabasco? 
If  this  be  so,  I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
All  this  would  I  endure,  were  't  ten  times  more, 
That  I  might  look  upon  Hernando's  face, 
Rather  than  without  him  to  reign  a  queen 
In  the  bright  mansions  of  the  sun! 


50  MALINCHE. 

I  Ml  he  with  him  on  land  and  sea, 
Where'er  on  earth  his  course  may  be! 
In  peaceful  hall,  on  battle-field, 
I  '11  be  his  ever  faithful  shield! 
I  Ml  breathe  for  him  my  latest  breath, 
And  in  the  solemn  hour  of  death 
My  only  wish  shall  be  to  rest 
My  dying:  head  upon  his  breast! 

[Re-enter  CORTK/  suddenly.] 

CORTEZ. 

Now,  by  the  rosy  God  of  Love, 
And  all  the  mighty  powers  above- 
By  all  the  past  that  I  hold  dear, 
Malinche,  now  I  wed  thee  here! 
I  wed  thee  by  the  laws  of  love 
That  rule  the  radiant  realms  above; 
If  this  be  sin,  I  Ml  bear  the  blame 
In  dungeon  dark  and  burning  flame; 
Hut  here  on  earth  there  is  for  me 
No  paradise,  except  with  thee! 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Spanish  camp  at  night  before  the  City  of  Tias- 
cala.  Soldiers  occupied  in  mending  armor  and  polishing 
arms  preparatory  to  battle. 

FIRST    SOLDIER. 

This  helmet  old  on  many  a  field 
From  Moorish  lance  has  been  the  shield; 
And  yet,  though  old  and  battered  now, 
Will  still  protect  a  soldier's  brow. 

SECOND   SOLDIER. 

And  this  old  sword,  though  hacked  and  worn, 
Which  a  brave  soldier's  thigh  has  borne, 
May  start  again  the  crimson  flood 
And  quench  its  thirst  in  A/tec  blood. 


MALINCHE.  51 

THIRD  SOLDIER. 

Then  we  '11  polish  our  arms 

And  prepare  for  alarms, 
And  await  for  the  sound  of  the  drum; 

Our  hearts  will  be  light 

As  our  weapons  are  bright, 
When  the  day  of  battle  has  come! 

CHORUS. 

Our  hearts  will  be  light 

As  our  weapons  are  bright, 
When  the  day  of  battle  has  come; 

Our  hearts  will  be  light 

As  our  weapons  are  bright, 
When  the  day  of  battle  has  come! 

Then  we  '11  polish  our  arms 

And  prepare  for  alarms, 
And  await  for  the  sound  of  the  drum; 

We  will  polish  our  arms 

And  prepare  for  alarms, 
And  await  for  the  sound  of  the  drum! 


{Enter  CORTEZ  and  MALINCHE.] 

CORTEZ. 
Canst  thou,  Malinche,  speak  the  Tlascalan  tongue? 

MALINCHE. 

Aye,  Hernando,  as  I  speak  Panillian. 

CORTEZ. 

Fear'st  thou  to  bear  a  message  to  the  chief 
Who  rules  TIascala  ? 

MALINCHE. 

Nought  fear  T  to  do  that  Hernando  wishes. 

CORTEZ. 

Then  shall  thou  to  Tlascala's  haughty  chief 
This  message  bear: 
"  Hernando  Cortez,  from  the  King  of  Spain 


52  MALL\CHE. 

An  envoy  is  to  the  great  Montezuma, 
The  proud  monarch  of  the  Aztec  Empire. 
Through  Tlascala  much  he  desires  to  pass, 
If  he  can,  in  peace;  if  not — pass  he  must!" 
The  brave  Alonzo  will  thy  escort  be. 

MALINCHE. 

I  go,  Hernando,  to  obey  thy  will. 

CORTEX.. 
Fear'st  thou  not  to  go,  Malinche  ? 

MALINCHE, 
I  fear  not,  Hernando, 
I  fear  not  to  go, 

Though  the  storm-cloud  in  wrath 
Should  beat  on  my  path; 
Though  the  fierce  tempest  blow, 
I  fear  not  to  go; 
I  fear  not,  Hernando, 
I  fear  not  to  go! 

For  the  love  of  Hernando 
With  me  I  will  bear, 
And  nought  will  I  care 
For  the  storm  on  my  path, 
Nor  Tlascala's  fierce  wrath; 
For  the  love  of  Hernando 
With  me  I  will  bear, 
With  me  I  will  bear! 

So  I  fear  not,  Hernando, 

I  fear  not  to  go, 

Though  the  storm-cloud  in  wrath 

Should  beat  on  my  path; 

Though  the  fierce  tempest  blow, 

I  fear  not  to  go; 

For  the  love  of  Hernando 

With  me  I  will  bear! 

[/••.ri/.j 


MALINCHE.  53 

CORTEZ. 

Wild  maid  of  the  tropics !  no  warrior  of  Spain 

Was  e'er  in  battle  more  daring  than  thou; 
And  ne'er  have  I  known  'mong  the  maids  of  Castile 

A  love  so  true  as  lights  thy  young  brow; 
And  ne'er  have  I  known  'mong  the  maids  of  Castile 

A  love  so  true  as  lights  thy  young  brow! 

A  love  so  true  as  lights  thy  young  brow! 

As  the  flower  to  the  sun,  when  the  daybeam  is  bright, 

Is  thy  wild  love,  Malinche,  for  me; 
As  the  sun  to  the  flower,  when  the  daybeam  is  bright, 

My  love  for  thee  forever  shall  be! 
As  the  sun  to  the  flower,  when  the  daybeam  is  bright, 

My  love  for  thee  forever  shall  be! 

My  love  for  thee  forever  shall  be! 

For  ne'er  have  I  known  'mong  the  maids  of  Castile 

A  love  so  true  as  lights  thy  young  brow; 
And,  in  bright  armor  laced,  no  warrior  of  Spain 

Was  e'er  in  battle  more  daring  than  thou. 
As  the  sun  to  the  flower,  when  the  daybeam  is  bright, 

My  love  for  thee  forever  shall  be! 

My  love  for  thee  forever  shall  be! 


SCENE   II.— On    the  Heights  of  Tlascala.     TLASCALAN 
CHIEF  and  warriors  in  council. 

CHIEF. 
What  of  the  warriors  from  the  rising  sun? 

WARRIOR. 

I  saw  them  by  the  early  light; 
Their  arms  did  flash  like  lightning  in  the  sun. 

CHIEF. 

Let  them  come  !     Let  them  come  ! 
Whoever  they  be — 


54  MALI  \CIII-:. 

From  the  realms  of  the  sun, 

Or  the  foam  of  the  sea; 
Let  them  come!     Let  them  come 

With  weapons  so  bright, 
That  flash  in  the  sunbeams 

Like  arrows  of  light! 
We  Ml  meet  them  in  battle 

In  a  tempest  of  wrath, 
When  they  Ml  scatter  like  leaves 

In  the  whirlwind's  path. 

CHOKI  s. 
We  Ml  meet  them  in  battle 

In  a  tempest  of  wrath, 
When  they  Ml  scatter  like  leaves 

In  the  whirlwind's  path. 
Let  them  come  !    Let  them  come  ! 

Whoever  they  be — 
From  the  realms  of  the  sun, 

Or  the  foam  of  the  sea; 
Let  them  come!     Let  them  come 

With  weapons  so  bright, 
That  flash  in  the  sunbeams 

Like  arrows  of  light! 
We  Ml  meet  them  in  battle 

In  a  tempest  of  wrath, 
When  they  Ml  scatter  like  leaves 

In  the  whirlwind's  path. 
Let  them  come  !     Let  them  come! 

Whoever  they  be— 
From  the  realms  of  the  sun, 

Or  the  foam  of  the  sea; 
Let  them  come!    Let  them  come! 
[Enter  MALINCHE  hurriedly.'} 

MALINCHE. 

Who  is  Tlascala's  chief? 

CHII  I  . 

What  w«  midst  thou,  maiden,  with  Tlascala's  chief? 


MALINCHK.  55 

MALINCHE. 

I  come  from  those  who  dwell  beyond  the  sea — 
Hernando  Cortez,  from  the  King  of  Spain, 
Desires  a  peaceful  passage  through  Tlascala 
To  the  city  of  the  Aztec  kings. 

He  does  not  come  as  armed  foe,— 
But  through  Tlascala  he  must  go; 
Shall  he  then  come  with  peaceful  word, 
Or  must  he  come  with  fire  and  sword  ? 

CHIEF. 

If  the  accursed  stranger  come, 
He  '11  hear  Tlascala's  battle-drum! 
Go  tell  him  this,  and  tell  him,  too, 
What  I,  Tlascala's  chief,  will  do: 
I  '11  give  his  heart  to  feed  the  fire 
Lit  by  HuitzelpoPs  burning  ire, 
That  ever  beams  by  day  and  night 
Upon  Titcala's  mountain  height! 
Go  tell  him  this,  false-hearted  slave, — 
False  to  the  land  thy  birth  that  gave; 
And  tell  him  that  Tlascala's  lord 
Swears  by  his  gods  to  keep  his  word. 

MALINCHE. 

Proud  son  of  Tlascala!     Proud  son  of  Tlascala! 

The  eagle  is  waiting  the  day 
When  the  dark,  bloody  field  of  battle  shall  give 

The  flesh  of  the  slaughtered  for  prey, 

The  flesh  of  the  slaughtered  for  prey! 
When  the  dark,  bloody  field  of  battle  shall  give 

The  flesh  of  the  slaughtered  for  prey! 

The  sons  of  Tlascala!     The  sons  of  Tlascala! 

They  '11  fall  on  mountain  and  plain; 
The  wild  hungry  wolf  shall  gorge  on  the  flesh 

And  lap  the  warm  blood  of  the  slain, 

And  lap  the  warm  blood  of  the  slain! 
The  wild  hungry  wolf  shall  gorge  on  the  flesh 

And  lap  the  warm  blood  of  the  slain! 

.  ] 


CHORUS. 

Let  them  come!     Let  them  come! 

Whoever  they  be— 
From  the  realms  of  the  sun, 

Or  the  foam  of  the  sea; 
Let  them  come!     Let  them  come 

With  weapons  so  bright, 
That  flash  in  the  sunbeams 

Like  arrows  of  light! 
We  Ml  meet  them  in  battle 

In  a  tempest  of  wrath, 
When  they  Ml  scatter  like  leaves 

In  the  whirlwind's  path. 
Let  them  come!     Let  them  come! 
[Exeunt.] 


SCENE  III.— The  Spanish  Camp.     (Same  as  Scene  /.) 

[Enter  CORTEZ,  ALVARADO,  and  SANDOVAL.] 

CORTEZ. 

If  the  Tlascalan  chief  permits  our  passage 
Through  his  mountain  land,  our  way  is  easy 
To  the  royal  court  of  Montezuma. 

ALVARADO. 

'T  is  said  he  is  a  fierce  and  warlike  chief, 
And  likely  't  is  our  passage  will  dispute. 

SANDOVAL. 

E'en  though  they  should, 
They  Ml  be  as  chaff  before  our  mailed  warriors. 

CORTEZ. 

I  now  fear  more  than  e'er  I  feared  before; 
Malinche  comes  not  yet.    I  fear  for  her. 

SANDOVAL. 

Alonzo  is  her  escort,  — 
And  a  braver  Spaniard  ne'er  drew  sword. 


MAL1NCHE.  57 

ALVARADO. 

Don  Hernando,  here  they  come! 
Malinche  looks  all  wild  and  pale. 

\_Enter  AVILA  and  MALINCHE.] 

CORTEZ. 
What  message  brings  Malinche  ? 

MALINCHE. 

That  Spanish  hearts  will  feed  the  fire 
Lit  by  Huitzelpol's  burning  ire, 
That  ever  beams  by  day  and  night 
Upon  Titcala's  mountain  height! 

CORTEZ. 

To  arms!     To  arms,  brave  Spanish  knights t 
We  '11  meet  Tlascala  on  the  heights, 
And  like  a  mountain  storm  we  '11  sweep 
O'er  hill,  and  plain,  and  valley  deep! 
To  arms!     To  arms!     Our  war-cry  be, 
Saint  James,  the  Cross,  and  Victory! 
[Enter  soldiers  hurriedly.] 

ALL. 

To  arms!     To  arms!     Our  war-cry  be, 
Saint  James,  the  Cross,  and  Victory! 

CHORUS. 

We  '11  strike  like  the  lightning 

From  the  dark,  mountain  cloud! 
When  the  tempest  is  raging 

And  the  thunder  is  loud; 
We  '11  strike  like  the  lightning! 
We  '11  strike  like  the  lightning 

From  the  dark,  mountain  cloud! 
When  the  tempest  is  raging 

And  the  thunder  is  loud; 
We  '11  strike  like  the  lightning! 
We  '11  strike  like  the  lightning 

From  the  dark,  mountain  cloud, 


.}/.  //.  /.\Y  y//-.. 

When  the  tempest  is  raging 
And  the  thunder  is  loud! 

MALINCHE. 

When  the  tide  of  the  battle  swells, 
And  the  brazen  trumpet  tells 
That  the  ghastly  strife  is  done, 
And  Hernando's  arms  have  won, 
Spare  the  conquered, — spare  the  weak! 
Let  not  the  sword  its  vengeance  wreak 
Upon  the  hapless  flying  ones, — 
Spare  Tlascala's  conquered  sons' 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I. — After    battle.      Tlascala's    conquered    CHIEF 
before  CORTEX. 

CHIM  . 

Fair-browed  son  of  a  distant  land, 

Thrice  have  we  met  in  deadly  strife; 
In  battle  thrice  Tlascala's  hand 

Has  vainly  sought  to  take  thy  life. 
Hut  this  is  past— the  battle's  o'er — 

Tlascala  now  thy  friend  would  be; 
1 1  is  arm  shall  raise  the  spear  no  more 

Against  the  Power  that  shelters  thee! 
I  Ijs  arm  shall  raise  the  spear  no  more 

Against  the  Power  that  shelters  thee! 

CORTK/,. 

'Tis  well,  brave  prince;  fast  friends  we'll  In 
While  mountain  streams  shall  seek  the  sea; 
In  peace  and  battle  we  will  stand 
With  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand! 
In  peace  and  battle  we  will  stand 
With  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand' 


MALINCHE.  59 

CHORUS  OF  SPANIARDS. 

All  welcome  to  the  gallant  chief 

Who  rules  Tlascala's  mountain  land! 
All  welcome  to  the  fearless  chief 

And  to  his  gallant  warrior  band! 
All  welcome  to  the  fearless  chief 

And  to  his  gallant  warrior  band! 
In  peace  and  battle  we  will  stand 

With  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand! 
In  peace  and  battle  we  will  stand 

With  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand! 


SCENE  II. — Palace  of  MONTE/UMA.     MONTEZUMA,  Curr- 
LAHUA,  warriors  and  priests  in  council. 

MONTEZUMA. 

Ye  who  know  the  dread  secrets  of  the  gods, 

Speak!  and  tell  me  of  the  misty  future. 

What  to  Montezuma  bodes  the  coming 

Of  these  fierce  strangers,  who  hold  the  lightning 

In  their  grasp,  and  speak  in  tones  of  thunder? 

Unfold  to  me  the  future,  and  tell  me, 

If  ye  can,  the  dread  secrets  of  the  gods! 

HIGH    PRIEST. 

We  have  looked  to  the  North, 
We  have  looked  to  the  South, 
While  the  blood  of  the  victim  was  flowing! 
We  have  looked  to  the  East, 
We  have  looked  to'the  West, 
While  the  flame  on  the  altar  was  glowing! 
And  dark  were  the  clouds  that  rolled  in  the  North, 
And  black  was  the  gloom  that  hung  in  the  South, 

While  the  flame  on  the  mountain  was  bright'ning! 
The  red  star  of  battle  beamed  bright  in  the  East, 
The  pale  star  of  peace  had  sunk  in  the  West, 
And  fierce  was  the  flash  of  the  lightning! 


60  MALINCHE. 

CHORUS  OF   PRIESTS. 

We  have  looked  to  the  North, 
We  have  looked  to  the  South, 
While  the  blood  of  the  victim  was  flowing! 
We  have  looked  to  the  East, 
We  have  looked  to  the  West, 
While  the  flame  on  the  altar  was  glowing! 
And  dark  were  the  clouds  that  rolled  in  the  North, 
And  black  was  the  gloom  that  hung  in  the  South, 

While  the  flame  on  the  mountain  was  bright'ning! 
The  red  star  of  battle  beamed  bright  in  the  East, 
The  pale  star  of  peace  had  sunk  in  the  West, 
And  fierce  was  the  flash  of  the  lightning! 
And  fierce  was  the  flash  of  the  lightning! 
The  red  star  of  battle  beamed  bright  in  the  East, 
The  pale  star  of  peace  had  sunk  in  the  West, 
And  fierce  was  the  flash  of  the  lightning! 

MONTEZUMA. 

But  tell  me  what  these  signs  forbode!    Tell  they 
Of  victory  to  the  Aztec  arms,  or  that 
The  great  gods  are  angry,  and  look  in  wrath 
Upon  the  sons  of  Aztlan? 

CUITLAHUA. 

Of  victory!  by  the  fierce  god  of  battles! 
Of  victory  to  the  glorious  Aztec  arms! 

Hid  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 

To  the  red  battle  come! 

Aye,  let  them  come  and  meet  the  foe 
With  shining  spear  and  bended  bow! 
And  let  them  on  the  battle-field 
Do  honor  to  the  A/tec  shield! 
And  let  them  meet  the  storm  of  death, 
As  meets  the  rock  the  tempest's  breath ; 
And  let  them  like  a  mountain  stand 
While  battling  for  their  native  land! 


MALINCHK.  6r 

CHORUS    OF  WARRIORS. 

Then  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 
To  the  red  battle  come! 
Like  heroes  to  conquer,  or  bravely  to  die, 
And,  blessed  by  the  gods,  on  the  battle-field  lie. 
Then  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 
To  the  red  battle  come! 
Like  heroes  to  conquer,  or  bravely  to  die, 
And,  blessed  by  the  gods,  on  the  battle-field  lie. 
Like  heroes  to  conquer,  or  bravely  to  die, 
And,  blessed  by  the  gods,  on  the  battle-field  lie. 

MONTEZUMA. 

'Tis  vain;  for  deep  in  my  spirit  I  feel 

That  the  glory  of  Aztlan  is  o'er; 
The  fire  that  now  burns  on  her  altars  so  bright, 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more! 

No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
The  fire  that  now  burns  on  her  altars  so  bright, 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more! 

No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more! 

[Enter  Aztec  maidens  with  flowers,  followed  by  CORTEZ 
and  his  principal  officers,  to  the  music  of  Grand  Spanish 
March.~\ 

CHORUS    OF    MAIDENS. 

Welcome  to  Aztlan,  fair  son  of  the  sea! 

The  maidens  of  Aztlan  give  welcome  to  thee! 
With  the  song  that  they  sing,  they  welcome  thee  now, 
As  this  crown  of  bright  flowers  they  place  on  thy  brow. 

Welcome  to  Aztlan,  fair  son  of  the  sea! 

The  maidens  of  Aztlan  give  welcome  to  thee! 
With  the  song  that  they  sing,  they  welcome  thee  now, 
As  this  crown  of  bright  flowers  they  place  on  thy  brow. 
[  They  crown  CORTEZ  with  floivers.~\ 


Sj  MALIMCHE. 

MOM  I  /.IMA. 

Illustrious  stranger!     1  behold  in  thee 

A  descendant  of  the  great  (Jiu-t/alcol, 

Tin   lair-browed  ruler  of  the-  aerial  realms 

And  founder  of  the  mighty  A/tc •«•  Kmpire. 

To  thee  I  bow,  and  tender  such  submission 

As  Monte/uina  owes   to  him  \\lio  rules 

The  empire  of  the  air;  holds  the  fierce  lightnings 

In  his  grasp,  and  speaks  in  tones  of  thunder. 

MAIDENS. 

Welcome  to  Axtlan,  fair  son  of  the  sea! 

The  maidens  of  Axtlan  give  welcome  to  thee! 

CORTBZ. 

Hernando  Cortex,  for  the  mighty  lord 

Who  rules  the  Kmpire  of  the  Kastern  seas, 

Accepts  the  homage  of  the  A/tec  kin-, 

The  mighty  lord  of  A/tlan's  mountain  land, 

And  commands  that  on  the  sac  lilicial  stone 

No  more  shall  human  blood  by  priest  be  shed, 

Of  offering  made  upon  tin-  teocali; 

But  that  the  Christian  cross  shall  stand  where  now 

The  Axtec  altars  reek  with  human  gore. 

flU.Kl'S    OF    SPANIARDS. 

Viva,  Cortex!     Viva,  Cortex. ! 

By  the  crown  that  decks  thy  brow 
We  hail  thee.  »allant.  glorious  chief, 

Vice-king,  and  lord  of  Axtlan  now! 
We  hail  thee,  gallant,  glorious  chief, 

Vice-kin-,  and  lord  of  A/tlan  now! 

Viva.  Corte/1     Viva.  Cortex! 
By  the  crown  that   decks  thy  brow 
We  hail  thee,  -allant.  -lotions  chief. 
Vice-king,  and  lord  of  A/tlan  mm  ! 

[CoKTiv  and  «ttn<  t  •>    retire   f>>>»i  tin-  full  in- 1\   to  tht'  music 
t>/    (iiand  March.} 


MALINCHE.  63 

CUITLAHUA. 

Bid  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 

To  the  red  battle  come! 

CHORUS    OF   WARRIORS. 

Aye,  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 

To  the  red  battle  come! 
Bid  the  warriors  of  Aztlan 

To  the  red  battle  come! 

ICONTEZUMA. 

No  more;  for  deep  in  my  spirit  I  feel 

That  the  glory  of  Aztlan  is  o'er; 
The  fire  that  now  burns  on  her  altars  so  bright, 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more. 

No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more. 

No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more! 

[Exit  MONTEZUMA.] 
MAIDENS. 

No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
Will  light  up  the  temples  no  more. 
The  fire  that  now  burns  on  her  altars  so  bright, 
Will  light  up  her  temples  no  more. 
No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
[Exeunt.] 


64  MALINCHE. 

SCENE  III.— ,/:Ar  temple  of  the  God  of  War.  Sac  un 
cial  stone  altar,  smoking  «v/M  human  sacrifice  and  stained 
«v/M  blood.  Priests  clothed  in  black  robes,  with  naked  at  ins 
and  garments  stained  with  blood.  Bloody  image  of  the 
II  'ar  God.  Sacrificia/  implements,  and  serpent-skin  drum. 

HIGH    PRIEST. 

Great  god  of  battles,  stern  and  dread, 
The  mountains  quake  beneath  thy  tread! 
Thy  fiery  breath 
Is  the  blast  of  death, 
Thy  glance  is  the  lightning's  glare! 
The  storm,  and  the  cloud 
And  the  thunder  loud 
Thy  ministers  of  vengeance  are. 
Oh,  tread  us  not  down  in  thy  angry  path! 
Accept  this  victim  to  thy  vengeful  wrath! 
(To  the  attendant  priests.] 
Bind  now  the  victim 

To  the  sacred  stone! 
Sound  the  serpent  drum 

To  drown  his  dying  groan ! 

[Priests  drag  a  naked  bound  victim  to  the  sacrificial  stone, 
on  which  they  place  him  on  his  back.  Priests  in  the  mean 
while  beating  the  war  drum  and  making  doleful  music  on 
savage  instruments.  HIGH  PRIEST  with  sacrificial  knife 
raised  to  open  the  breast  of  the  victim.] 

[Enter  CORTEZ  ami  Spanish  soldiers.] 

COKTI  / 
Hold,  murderers!     Hold  your  work  of  death' 

Red-handed  demons,  hold! 

More  horrid  this  than  sacrifice 

To  Moloch's  shrine  of  old. 

(  To  the  soldiers. ) 
Unbind  the  victim— quench  the  tirrs 

That  on  the  altar  glow, 
And  from  its  ghastly,  blood-stained  throne 
That  horrid  image-  thniw! 


MALINCHE.  65 

[Soldiers  throw  down  image  of  War  God,  scatter  the  sa 
cred  fire  and  demolish  altar.  Priests  resist  with  their 
sacrificial  weapons,  but  are  soon  overcome  by  the  soldiers 
and  fly  from  the  temple,  some  being  slain.  Enter  FATHER 
OLMEDO  with  a  banner  bearing  the  sign  of  the  cross,  which 
he  plants  on  the  altar  of  the  demolished  War  God.] 

OLMEDO. 

Emblem  of  the  Christian  faith! 

Emblem  of  the  Life  Divine, 
And  of  the  Sacred  Name  around 

Which  eternal  glories  shine! 
We  hail  in  thee  the  glorious  day 
That  drives  the  pagan  gloom  away! 
The  place  where  Moloch's  altars  stood, 
No  more  shall  flow  with  human  blood. 

CHORUS   OF    SOLDIERS. 

We  hail  in  thee  the  glorious  day 
That  drives  the  pagan  gloom  away! 
The  place  where  Moloch's  altars  stood, 
No  more  shall  flow  with  human  blood. 
Emblem  of  the  Christian  faith! 
Emblem  of  the  Life  Divine, 
And  of  the  Sacred  Name  around 

Which  eternal  glories  shine! 
We  hail  in  thee  the  glorious  day 
That  drives  the  pagan  gloom  away ! 
We  hail  in  thee  the  glorious  day 
That  drives  the  pagan  gloom  away! 

[  Confused  sound  of  the  beating  of  drums  and  yelling  of 
enraged  populace.  Spaniards  assailed  by  great  numbers 
of  Aztecs.  They  fight  their  way  out  oj  the  temple,  and 
gain  the  causeway.] 


66  J/.-//./AV7//-;. 

SCENE  \V.—"Noche  Ttiste."  The  cud  of  the  causeway. 
Stage  dimly  lighted.  Misty  moonlight.  Distant  clashing 
of  arms,  beating  of  drums,  shouts  and  groans,  and  the  wild 
sound  of  desperate  battle. 

[Enter  CORTEX,  AVILA,  SANDOVAL,  ami  a  few  soldiers.'} 

COR  117. 

Comrades,  we  've  gained  at  last  the  solid  ground; 
But  alas,  our  gallant  friends  and  soldiers  brave! 
Many,  I  fear,  have  fallen;  or  been  captive  ta'en 
To  perish  on  the  accursed  altars. 
Where  is  Alvarado?    Where  Malinche? 

MALINCIIK  wildly,  and  bleeding  from  a  slight  wound 
on  the  forehead.  ] 

MALINCHE. 

To  the  rescue,  gallant  knights!  to  the  rescue! 
All  alone  stands  the  brave  Alvarado 
With  broken  sword  and  shivered  spear,  and  soon 
Will  fall,  if  none  to  his  speedy  rescue  come! 

CORTEX. 

On  with  me,  brave  soldiers,  to  the  rescue! 
On,  comrades!  on  to  the  desperate  charge! 


SCENE  V. —  On  the  causeway.  ALVARADO  surrounded 
by  a  yelling  host,  against  whom  he  is  making  a  desperate 
defence. 

[Enter  CORTEX,  AVILA,  SANDOVAI.,  and  the  remnant  of  the 
army.~\ 

CORTEZ. 

Now  let  the  bloody  demons  feel 
The  deadly  thrust  of  Spanish  steel! 
Strike,  comrades!  —  strike!     Strike  for  your  lives' 
And  let  the  bloody  demons  feel 

Tin-  deadly  thrust  of  Spanish  steel! 


MALINCHE.  67 

[  The  Aztecs  give  way  before  the  desperate  charge  of  the 
Spaniards  ;  many  are  slain,  and  many  are  forced  into  the 
lake] 

CORTEZ. 

To  the  front,  comrades!     Let 's  haste 
And  gain  the  land.    Give  Alvarado  aid; 
He  is  wounded,  and  faints  from  loss  of  blood. 
Once  on  the  solid  ground,  we  '11  make  a  stand. 
[Exeunt  Spaniards  fighting.  ] 


SCENE  VI.  —  The  end  of  the  causeway.    (Same  as  Scene  IV.} 

[Enter    Spaniards    slowly,    bearing    ALVARADO    bleeding. 
CORTEZ  follows.'} 

CORTEZ  (seating  himself  under  a  tree]. 

Oh,  where  are  they  now?     [Aside.] 

Oh,  where  are  they  now, 
The  soldiers  who  with  me  have  stood, 

When  the  wild  storm  broke 

In  flame  and  in  smoke 
On  the  fields  of  carnage  and  blood? 

Their  battles  are  done, 

Their  last  vict'ry  won, — 
They  sleep  with  the  foes  they  have  slain; 

They  will  hear  no  more 

The  cannon's  loud  roar, 
Nor  meet  the  red  battle  again! 

But  away  with  this  sad  and  melting  mood! 

For  no  tear  must  dim  the  eye  of  Cortez 

Until  he  has  regained  what  he  has  lost, 

And  has  avenged  the  death  of  his  brave  comrades. 

( To  his  soldiers. ) 

My  brave  companions  of  a  hundred  fights, 
Man  ne'er  was  great  but  in  the  hour  of  danger; 
And  suffering  needful  is  to  make  him  great. 
To  pluck  the  rose  is  for  the  maiden's  hand — 


To  beard  the  lion  needs  the  warrior's  strength! 
We  've  met  reverses,  but  still  are  not  defeated— 
To-morrow,  when  the  rosy  dawn  first  gilds 
The  purpling  East,  like  the  dread  bolt  that  strikes 
The  solid  earth,  we  '11  storm  the  sleeping  city 
And  regain  what  we  have  lost.     What  say  ye, 
Heroes  of  a  hundred  battles  ? 

CHORUS. 

In  life,  and  in  death, 
With  blood,  and  with  breath, 
By  thee  will  we  stand 
With  heart,  and  with  hand- 
Till  the  banners  of  Spain 

All  proudly  shall  wa\  v, 
Or  the  wild  wolf  shall  howl 

O'er  the  warrior's  grave! 
Till  the  banners  of  Spain 

All  proudly  shall  wave, 
Or  the  wild  wolf  shall  howl 

O'er  the  warrior's  grave! 


ACT   Y. 


SCENE  I.  —  MONTEZUMA'S  ralacc.  (.^amc  as  Act  //' 
Scene  II.}  * 

[Enfer  CORTEZ,  ALVARADO,  SANDOVAL,  and  AVILA.] 

CORTEX. 

Again  we  stand  in  Montezuma's  palace! 
Again  our  banners  wave  upon  the  walls! 
Again  the  Holy  Christian  Cross  is  planted 
Upon  the  teocali,  which  of  late 
Was  stained  with  blood  of  human  sacrifice. 
'Tis  meet  that  we  to  heaven  return  our  thanks 

*Cortez,  after  having  recruited  his  shattered  army,  returned  with  his 
Tlascalan  allies  and  carried  the  City  of  Mexico  by  st,,rm.  And  tints  t-n,K-«l 
the  Conquest  of  Mexico.—  H. 


MALINCHE.  69 

For  the  great  victory  we  so  bravely  won. 
To-morrow,  then,  we  '11  celebrate  High  Mass, 
And  holy  incense  burn  in  this  dark  temple. 
Go  thou,  Gonzalo;  and  you  too,  Avila, 
And  tell  the  holy  father  see  to  it. 
Don  Pedro,  stay!  I  would  a  word  with  thee. 
[Exeunt  SANDOVAL  and  AVILA.] 

ALVARADO. 

What  news,  Hernando,  from  the  Court  of  Spain 
Brings  the  courier  who  last  night  arrived  ? 

CORTEZ. 

Orders  that  I  at  once  myself  present 
Before  the  Royal  Charles  to  make  report; 
Leaving  Don  Pedro  de  Alvarado 
In  vice-regal  charge  on  my  departure. 
The  ship  "San  Carlos,  "  just  arrived  from  Spain 
Awaits  me  in  the  port  of  Vera  Cruz. 

ALVARADO. 

What  orders  wouldst  thou  give  me,  Don  Hernando  ? 

CORTEZ. 

Of  that,  to-morrow,  Don  Pedro; 
I  'm  weary  now,  and  fain  would  have  repose. 
Where  is  Malinche  ?    Hast  thou  not  seen  her? 

ALVARADO. 

I  saw  her  less  an  hour  ago 
Gazing  upon  the  sun  with  moistened  eyes. 
I  called  her  twice,  but  yet  she  heeded  not: 
One  word  atone  she  spoke,  and  that  was  "Father !" 

CORTEZ. 

'T  is  a  sad  day  for  me,  indeed; 
I,  who  yesterday  like  a  mountain  stood, 
Rooted  with  stern  purpose — now  like  a  leaf 
Tremble  with  emotion.     Leave  me  alone — 
Grief  loves  the  solitude. 

[Exit  ALVARADO.] 


70  MAUM'lll 

Malinche  in  tears!     Of  what  bodes  this  -rief ? 
Oh,  Cortez!  Cortez!  thy  lot  is  desolate! 
An  Empire  thou  hast  won  for  Charles  of  Spain, 
And  history  will,  perchance,  give  thee  a  name — 
Hut  loud-voiced  Fame,  will  that  thee  compensate 
If  thou  dost  lose  the  love  of  this  wild  maid  ? 
[Enter  MALINCHK.  .;'<'-'".;r  towards  the  sun.] 
Malinche! 

MAUNCHB. 

Hernando! 

CORTEZ, 

Knowest  thou,  Malinche,  that  I  am  ordered 
To  at  once  appear  before  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  that  the  ship  awaits  to  bear  me  hence  ? 

MAUNCHB. 

Aye,  Hernando,  these  news  I  've  heard. 

CORTK/. 
Art  ready  to  accompany  me,  Malinche  ? 

MALINCHI  . 

I  cannot  go,  Hernando;  Malinche 
Cannot  leave  the  mountain  land  of  A/llan! 

CORTK/. 

I  '11  take  thee  to  the  Royal  Court  of  Spain; 
The  Indian  maiden  shall  a  princess  be — 
Shall  wear  the  richest  robes,  and  jewels  bright! 

MALI  NX*  I  IK. 

I  lernando,  the  flower  that  in  the  forest  blooms, 
Withers  when  in  the  royal  gardens  placed— 
Malinche  would  not  see  Hernando  blush 
For  the  wild  flower  placed  beside  the  garden  rose. 
No,  Hernando;  Malinche  cannot  -«». 

COR  II  / 
What  shall  Hernando  do,  and  what  Malinche? 


MALIXCHE.  71 

MALINCHE. 

Hernando  shall  obey  his  sovereign's  will. 
CORTEZ. 

And  Malinche  ? 

MALINCHE. 

In  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  my  father: 
With  smiling  face  he  pointed  far  away 
To  a  beauteous,  sunny  land  of  flowers, 
And  said: 

"  I  wait  for  Malinche 

Where  the  bright  golden  beam 
Ever  sheds  its  soft  light 

On  the  clear,  silver  stream. 
I  wait  for  Malinche  — 

Her  toils  are  all  clone! 
I  wait  for  Malinche 

In  the  realms  of  the  sun! 
I  wait  for  Malinche 

In  the  realms  of  the  sun!  " 

He  bade  me  seek  the  shady  cypress  groves 
Where  dwell  the  vestal  virgins,  and  there  await 
His  summons  to  the  mansions  of  the  sun. 
To-morrow  Don  Hernando  leaves  for  Spain, 
And  Malinche  for  Tezcuco's  shady  groves, 
To  wait  the  summons  to  the  flowery  land 
And  the  bright  mansions  of  the  sun. 

Where,  Hernando,  we  will  meet 
When  the  storms  of  life  are  o'er; 

Where  the  tear  that  sorrow  sheds 
Will  dim  Malinche's  eyes  no  more; 

Where  the  tear  that  sorrow  sheds 
Will  dim  Malinche's  eyes  no  more. 

CORTEZ. 
It  cannot  be,  Malinche,  no; 

Oh,  no,  it  cannot  be! 
For  surely  thou  wilt  go  with  me 

Across  the  rolling  sea! 


72  MAUNCI/1-. 

Across  the  rolling  sea — 
Across  the  rolling  sea — 
Yes,  surely  thou  wilt  go  with  me 
Across  the  rolling  sea! 

With  me  thou  hast  unflinching  stood 

Amid  the  battle's  strife, 
And  dearer  to  Hernando  art 

Than  is  his  stormy  life! 

Than  is  his  stormy  life — 

Than  is  his  stormy  life- 
Yes,  dearer  to  Hernando  art 

Than  is  his  stormy  life! 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  Malinche  dear! 

Come  now,  my  love,  and  rest 
That  little  weary  head  of  thim 

Upon  Hernando's  breast! 

Upon  Hernando's  breast — 

Upon  Hernando's  breast — 
Yes,  lay  that  weary  head  of  thine 

Upon  Hernando's  breast! 

MALINCHE. 

Oh,  if  the  gods  were  willing  now, 

How  gladly  I  would  lay 
My  weary  head  upon  thy  breast, 

And  breathe  my  life  away! 

And  breathe  my  life  away — 

And  breathe  my  life  away — 
Yes,  gladly  there  would  lay  my  head 

And  breathe  my  life  away! 

[THE  SPIRIT  OF  MALINCHE'S  FATHER  appears  for  a  moment 

in  the  distance.] 
But,  I  behold  my  father's  face! 

He  points  a  threat'ning  hand, 
And  sternly  bids  me  here  to  stay 
In  Aztlan's  mountain  land! 
In  Axtlan's  mountain  land — 
In  Aztlan's  mountain  land— 


MALINCHE.  73 

Yes,  sternly  bids  me  here  to  stay 
In  Aztlan's  mountain  land! 

So,  fare  thee  well,  Hernando  love! 

I  'd  gladly  go  with  thee, 
And  be  with  thee  where'  er  thou  art 
Beyond  the  rolling  sea! 
Beyond  the  rolling  sea — 
Beyond  the  rolling  sea — 
And  be  with  thee  where'er  thou  art 

Beyond  the  rolling  sea! 
[THE  SPIRIT  OF  MALINCHE'S  FATHER  appears  again,  and 

beckons  her  away,] 
Farewell,  Hernando  love,  farewell! 
Farewell!  —  farewell!  —  farewell! 

CORTEZ. 

One  kiss,  Malinche,  and  farewell! 
Farewell!  —  farewell!  —  farewell! 

[MALINCHE  and  CORTEZ  separate  and  retire  from  the  stage 
in  different  directions  to  the  sound  of  soft,  minor  music.] 


SCENE  II. —  Tezcuco's  Groves.  MALINCHE,  supported  by 
TAZMALA,  reclining  on  a  couch  of  flowers.  Enter  virgins 
dressed  in  costumes  representing  the  sun. 

MALINCHE    (tO  TAZMALA). 

Why  weep'st  thou  for  Malinche  now  ? 

Why  weepest  thou  for  me  ? 
For  like  a  mountain  bird  will  I 

From  sorrow  soon  be  free! 

From  sorrow  soon  be  free — 

From  sorrow  soon  be  free — 
For  like  a  mountain  bird  will  I 

From  sorrow  soon  be  free! 

TAZMALA. 

The  mountain  bird  in  sorrow  sings, 
When  it  is  left  alone 


Upon  the  leafy  bmi-h.  from  when- 
Its  loving  mate  has  tlown! 
Its  loving  mate  has  down- 
Its  loving  mate-  has  down— 

Upon  the  leafy  bough,  from  where 
Its  loving  mate  has  Mown' 

So  I  must  weep  for  thee,  Mnlinche; 

.  I  must  weep  lor  tin-,-' 
When  tliou  art  gone,  Malinche,  then 

Oh,  who  will  care  for  me  ? 

Oh,  who  will  care  for  me — 

Oh.  who  will  care  for  me— 
When  thou  art  gone,  Malinche,  then 

Oh,  who  will  care  for  me  ? 

A  lone  and  friendless  bird  I  '11  be 

On  a  deserted  tree; 
A  lone  and  friendless  bird  I  '11  be 

On  a  deserted  tree! 

On  a  deserted  tree — 

On  a  deserted  tree — 
A  lone  and  friendless  bird  I  '11  IK- 

On  a  deserted  tree! 

CHOKl'S  Ml      VIKCINS. 

And  the  daughters  of  Aztlan  will  weep, 

And  tears  of  sorrow  will  shed 
O'er  the  spot  where  Malinche  may  sleep 
When  her  bright  spirit  has  fled! 
When  her  bright  spirit  has  fled 
To  the  far-off  realms  of  the  sun! 
When  her  bright  spirit  has  fled 
To  the  far-off  realms  of  the  sun! 

IfALINCHB. 

Farewell,  ye  virgins  of  A/tlan! 

Fair  maids  of  Chnlula,  fan-well! 
The  days  of  Malinche  have  passed; 

She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell! 
The  days  of  Malinrhe  have  p., 

She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell! 


MAL1NCHE.  75 

CHORUS. 

The  days  of  Malinche  have  passed, 
She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell! 

MALINCHE. 

The  days  of  Malinche  have  passed; 

The  toils  of  her  life  are  all  done; 
She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 
She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

CHORUS. 
She  goes  with  her  fathers  to  dwell 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

MALINCHE. 

Where  the  flowers  of  love  ever  bloom, 

And  the  sunbeam  ever  is  bright! 
Where  the  shadows  of  evening  ne'er  fall, 

Nor  the  cold,  chilling  dews  of  the  night! 
Where  the  shadows  of  evening  ne'er  fall, 

Nor  the  cold,  chilling  dews  of  the  night! 

CHORUS. 

Wrhere  the  shadows  of  evening  ne'er  fall, 
Nor  the  cold,  chilling  dews  of  the  night! 

MALINCHE. 

Where  the  maidens  are  sweet  as  the  rose, 
When  fresh  with  the  dewdrops  of  morn! 

And  bright  as  the  brow  of  the  East, 

When  the  beams  of  the  morning  are  born! 

And  bright  as  the  brow  of  the  East, 
When  the  beams  of  the  morning  are  born! 

CHORUS. 
And  bright  as  the  brow  of  the  East, 

When  the  beams  of  the  morning  are  born! 


76  MALINCH1. 

M.  \LINCHE. 

Then  farewell,  fair  virgins!  —  farewell! 

When  the  toils  of  your  lives  are  all  done, 
We  will  meet  in  the  gardens  of  love, 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 
We  will  meet  in  the  gardens  of  love, 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

CHORUS. 

We  will  meet  in  the  gardens  of  love, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

MALINCHE. 

We  will  meet — we  will  meet,  fair  virgins,  again, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

We  will  meet — we  will  meet,  fair  virgins,  again, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

We  will  meet — we  will  meet,  fair  virgins,  again, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun!  [Dies.] 

[MALINCHE  slowly  ascends  from  the  stage  amid  clouds  of 
aromatic  incense  and  strains  of  solemn  music.] 

CHOKIS. 

We  will  meet  thee,  Malinche,  again, 
When  the  toils  of  our  lives  are  all  done — 

We  will  meet  thee,  Malinche,  again, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

We  will  meet  thee,  Malinche,  again, 
In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 

[All fall  upon  their  knees  and  bow  their  heads  to  the  ground. 
Clouds  separate,  exposing  to  view  the  spirits  of  MALINCHE 
and  her  father. ,] 

MALINCHE. 

The  days  of  Malinche  have  passed; 

The  toils  of  the  earth  are  all  done; 
She  comes  to  her  father,  to  dwell 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun! 
She  comes  to  her  father,  to  dwell 

In  the  bright,  golden  realms  of  the  sun' 


MALINCHE.  77 

SPIRIT  OF  THE    FATHER. 

Where  the  flowers  of  love  ever  bloom, 

And  the  sunbeam  ever  is  bright! 
Where  the  shadows  of  evening  ne'er  fall, 

Nor  the  cold,  chilling  dews  of  the  night! 
Where  the  shadows  of  evening  ne'er  fall, 

Nor  the  cold,  chilling  dews  of  the  night! 

[Curtain.] 
City  of  Mexico,  1881. 


THE  TREE  OF  "LA  NOCHE  TRISTE. 


Tin   sun  it  shone  bright 

From  the  clear,  a/ure  skies, 
On  the  high  mountain  peak 

Where  the  white  snow  lies; 
My  brow  it  was  fanned 

By  the  soft  summer  breeze, 
As  whispering  it  came 

From  the  bright,  tropic:  seas. 

As  musing  I  sat 

'Neath  the  old,  gnarled  tree, 
Wild  scenes  of  the  past 

Were  pictured  to  me  : 
The  storm,  and  the  gloom 

Of  the  dark,  dismal  night, 
The  carnage  and  blood 

Of  the  fierce,  ghastly  fight, 

When  Cortez  of  Spain 

In  the  wild  tempest  stood, 
And  fought  till  the  lake 

Was  crimson  with  blood! 
Like  a  rock  in  the  sea, 

'Mid  lightning  and  hail, 
Unflinching  he  stood 

In  his  armor  of  mail. 

I  heard  the  fierce  storm 

Of  battle  again; 
And  the  war-cry  loud 

Of  the  warriors  of  Spain; 
The  sound  of  the  war  drum — 

The  Aztec's  wild  yell  — 
The  groans  of  the  dying 

In  battle  that  HI. 


THE  TREE  OF  "LA   NOCHE  TRISTE."       79 

The  old  tree  still  stands; 

Its  leaves  are  still  green, 
Though  a  thousand  bright  summers 

And  more  it  has  seen; 
But  where  now  is  he 

Who  under  it  sighed, 
And  wept  on  that  night 

O'er  the  soldiers  who  died? 

Like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

From  earth  he  has  gone, 
Remembered  alone 

By  the  wrongs  he  has  done; 
By  a  kingdom  destroyed — 

By  an  empire  broke — 
By  a  people  enslaved 

And  bound  to  a  yoke. 

And  where  is  the  arm 

The  sceptre  that  swayed, 
Which  continents  ruled 

And  millions  obeyed  ? 
Departed  and  vanished 

Forever  away, 
Has  the  magical  power 

Of  the  "  Yo,  El  Rey!" 

The  banner  of  Spain 

As  it  floats  on  the  breeze, 
No  longer  is  mistress 

Of  the  Indian  seas; 
No  longer  is  echoed 

Her  cannons'  loud  roar, 
From  the  snows  of  the  Arctic 

To  Magellan's  bleak  shore. 

Now  quenched  is  her  power, 

And  climm'd  is  her  fame, 
Her  stately  Hidalgos 

Exist  but  in  name; 


So        Till-.    TREE  OF  "LA  NOCHI. 

Like  this  old,  gnarled  tree, 
She  's  hoary  with  age, 

And  her  glory  exists 
But  on  history's  page. 

And  such  of  empires 

Is  ever  the  fate, 
Whatever  their  glory 

And  grandeur  of  state— 
They  have  their  fresh  morn, 

And  their  bright  noonday, 
Their  eve  of  decline 

And  night  of  decay. 

City  of  Mexico,  July  28,  1892. 


EPISTLE   TO   A   FRIEND. 
[THOMAS  T.  BOULDIN.] 


AN  ARGUMENT  IN  FAVOR  OF  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE 

SOUL,  DRAWN  FROM  THE  REVEALINGS 

OF  NATURE. 

"  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?" 

MY  worthy  friend,  both  you  and  I 
Have  seen  life's  early  years  go  by; 
And  on  our  heads  some  snowflakes  lie, 

That  plainly  show 
That  soon  the  springs  of  life  will  dry 

And  cease  to  flow. 

What  think  you,  then,  our  lots  will  be 
When  we  have  crossed  the  misty  sea, 
And  reached  that  wide  eternity, 

Where  all  at  last 
Will  find  a  place  by  just  decree 

When  life  has  passed  ? 

Will  still  fat  pulse  of  Memory  beat, 
And  still  her  whispering  voice  be  sweet  ? 
Will  earthly  friends  each  other  greet 

Upon  that  shore  ? 
Will  loved  ones  there  together  meet 

To  part  no  more  ? 

Can  we  at  will  return  to  earth 
To  seek  again  our  place  of  birth, 
And  find  again  the  household  hearth 

Where  we  have  been  ? 
And  hear  again  its  songs  of  mirth, 

Though  all  unseen  ? 


82  /.77.V 'A/./-;     TO    .1     FRIEND. 

Or,  in  a  dark,  unconscious  state, 
Must  we  some  resurrection  wait, 
When  we  shall  learn  an  endless  fate  ? 

If  'tis  to  dwell 
Within  the  shining,  crystal  gate, 

Or  chained  in  hell? 

Or  is  identic  being  lost, 

In  an  infinite  ocean  tossed, 

When  Death's  dark  river  we  have  crossed? 

Will  Memory,  then, 
Sleep  ever  on  a  soundless  coast, 

Nor  speak  again  ? 

It  is,  I  know,  a  question  hard 

For  schoolman  learned  or  rhyming  bard 

To  tell  what  laws  of  Nature  guard 

The  pass  of  gloom; 
Or  say  what  is  the  soul's  award 

Beyond  the  tomb. 

Yet  still,  by  Nature's  laws  we  may, 
With  Reason's  lamp,  oft  find  the  way 
That  leads  us  to  a  glorious  day 

Of  cheerful  light; 
From  where  the  gloomy  shadows  lay 

Of  sullen  night. 

What  does  the  voice  of  Nature  teach  ? 
What  does  the  tongue  of  Reason  preach  ? 
For  what  does  Hope  forever  stretch 

An  anxious  hand  ? 
It  is  that  we  at  last  may  reach 

Some  brighter  land! 

And  by  these  teachings,  I  believe 
That,  when  this  earthly  life  we  leave, 
And  from  its  toils  obtain  reprieve, 

That  Memory  will 
In  brighter  lands  than  we  conceive, 

He  conscious  still. 


EPISTLE    TO   A    FRIEND.  83 

No  foolish  plans  has  Nature  laid: 
The  flower  that  decks  the  sunny  glade 
Or  blooms  within  the  forest  shade, 

The  orbs  that  shine— 
For  certain  ends  were  wisely  made 

By  fixed  design. 

And  thus,  these  yearning  hopes  that  swell 

Within  my  bosom,  surely  tell 

That  Death's  dark  shadows  ne'er  can  quell 

This  soul  of  mine; 
Nor  cycling  ages  sound  the  knell 

Of  thought  divine. 

Therefore,  my  friend,  when  life  is  o'er, 
And  we  shall  toil  on  earth  no  more, 
Nor  feel  its  storms  so  bleak  and  sore, 

I  think  we  '11  meet — 
And  find  upon  some  pleasant  shore 

A  sweet  retreat. 

And  then,  with  large,  expanded  mind, 
And  vision  then  no  longer  blind, 
We  '11  seek  the  eternal  cause  to  find 

Of  circling  years, 
And  learn  the  beauteous  laws  that  bind 

The  rolling  spheres. 

Aye,  then  with  vision  clear  and  bright, 
We  '11  pierce  the  curt'ning  clouds  of  night, 
And  learn  from  whence  the  races  sprung 
While  yet  the  teeming  earth  was  young! 

And  borne  on  Thought's  immortal  wing, 
From  Nature's  caverns  we  will  bring 
Her  secret  laws,  and  bid  them  tell 
What  in  the  caves  of  darkness  dwell! 

We  '11  clothe  ourselves  in  solar  light, 
Or  roam  the  starry  fields  of  night; 
The  rolling  orbs  of  light  we  '11  trace 
And  find  the  wandering  meteor's  place! 


EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 


We  '11  learn  what  feeds  the  solar  beams, 
And  why  the  forked  lightning  gleams; 
What  fixed  the  everlasting  pole 
And  bade  the  orb  around  it  roll! 

What  makes  the  muttering  thunders  growl, 
And  bids  the  storm  in  anger  howl; 
From  whence  the  breeze  of  morning  springs, 
And  why  the  evening  zephyr  sings! 

What  gilds  the  rosy  clouds  that  lie 
Upon  the  far-off  azure  sky; 
What  paints  the  little  violet  blue, 
And  gives  the  rose  its  blushing  hue! 

And  oft,  in  some  Arcadian  grove, 
By  crystal  streams,  perchance  we  Ml  rove; 
Or  'neath  some  ever-blooming  tree 
We  '11  drink  celestial  melody! 

And  sometimes,  we  Ml  return  to  earth 
To  seek  again  our  place  of  birth, 
And  wander  by  the  murmuring  stream 
Where  we  in  childhood  loved  to  dream. 

Think  not,  my  friend,  that  in  this  strain 
I  have  indulged  in  thought  profane, — 
For  Nature's  laws  I  do  revere, 
And  give  to  them  a  list'ning  ear. 

But  thought,  immortal,  must  be  free, 
And  mind  must  independent  be  ; 
In  all  the  spheres  where  it  may  dwell, 
It  makes  its  heaven,  or  makes  its  hell! 

I  love  all  bright  and  beauteous  things: 
The  warbling  bird  that  sweetly  sings; 

The  blooming  flower, 

The  crystal  shower, 
That  summer  fruit  and  verdure  brings. 


EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  85 

I  love  the  bright  and  glorious  sun; 
The  twilight  shades,  when  day  is  done; 

The  solemn  night, 

With  stars  so  bright, 
That  mark  the  seasons  as  they  run. 

I  love  the  wide  and  rolling  deep; 
The  storms  that  o'er  its  bosom  sweep; 

Its  foamy  waves, 

And  coral  caves, 
Where  calm  the  angry  billows  sleep. 

I  love  earth's  green  and  grassy  hills; 
Its  spreading  plains  and  murmuring  rills; 

Each  breeze  that  blows, 

Each  plant  that  grows, 
And  drinks  the  dew  that  night  distills. 

And  by  the  scenes  on  earth  I  love, 
I  draw  the  peaceful  realms  above; 
And  by  some  standard  found  in  this, 
I  paint  a  future  life  of  bliss! 

These  are  my  cheerful  hopes,  in  brief, 
And  this  my  firm  and  fixed  belief, 
And  still  shall  be,  till  life  is  o'er, 
And  I  shall  feel  its  storms  no  more. 

So,  when  at  last  I  'm  called  to  die, 
And  on  a  mortal  couch  shall  lie, 
Let  not  one  tear  of  grief  be  shed 
By  those  I  love  around  my  bed. 

But  let  the  last  that  I  may  see 
On  earth  all  bright  and  cheerful  be, 
And  be  the  sounds  I  love  to  hear, 
The  last  that  fall  upon  my  ear. 

I  would  not  have  a  flower  to  shed 
A  single  leaf,  or  droop  its  head, 
In  sorrow  o'er  the  common  doom 
That  lays  me  in  the  silent  tomb. 


86  EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIE\D. 

I  would  not  have  a  summer's  day 
Robbed  of  one  bright  and  cheerful  ra\ , 
When  Nature  makes  my  quiet  bed 
And  lays  the  turf  above  my  head. 

I  would  not  have  the  cypress  wave 
And  cast  its  shadow  on  my  grave; 
Nor  would  I  have  the  willow  weep 
Above  the  spot  where  I  may  sleep. 

But  plant  the  lily  and  the  rose 
Around  the  place  of  my  repose, 
And  there  at  morn  and  eve  be  heard 
The  sweetest  song  of  warbling  bird. 

And  through  the  long,  bright  summer's  day 
There  let  young  children  come  and  play, 
And  let  young  lovers  seek  that  spot 
To  pluck  the  sweet  forget-me-not. 

So  then,  my  friend,  we  '11  not  repine 
Because  we  are  in  life's  decline, 
But  will  ourselves  with  faith  resign 

To  Nature's  laws; 
Although  we  cannot  now  divine 

The  Infinite  Cause. 

'T  is  meet,  when  summer  leaves  are  shed, 
And  summer  flowers  all  are  dead, 
And  summer  verdure  all  has  fled, — 

That  then  the  stem 
To  stern  decay  should  bow  its  head 

And  sleep  with  them. 

Then  let  pale  Azrael  bend  his  bow, 

And  let  the  fatal  arrow  go 

That  strikes  alike  the  high  and  low, 

Whene'er  he  will; 
We  will,  beneath  the  mortal  blow, 

Be  hopeful  still! 


EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  87 

For  though  we  may  not  carry  o'er 
The  river  dark  an  earthly  store 
Of  shining  gems  and  golden  ore, — 

Yet  Memory, 
When  we  can  use  such  things  no  more, 

Still  bright  may  be. 

Then  let  us  while  in  earthly  lands, 

Keep  pure  our  hearts  and  clean  our  hands, 

That,  when  life's  ever-ebbing  sands 

Are  wasted  all, 
Bright  thoughts  may  come  in  shining  bands 

At  Memory's  call. 


San  Francisco,  1869. 


TO    A    WITHERED    ROSE 

WIIICM   HAD   r.ii  \    PRESENTED  nv   A   vorxr,   LADY). 


K.MHLEM  of  joys  that  quickly  pass, 
And  early  hopes  that  soon  decay, 

Pale,  withered  flower,  how  soon,  alas! 
Thy  lovely  hues  have  passed  away. 

This  morn  upon  thy  bosom  slept 
The  tears  of  love  that  night  had  shed; 

But  ere  again  the  night  had  wept, 
Thy  beauty  had  forever  fled. 

These  withered  leaves  are  left  alone, — 

Sad  relics  of  departed  bloom ; 
They  tell  of  youthful  pleasures  gone, 

And  hopes  that  perish  in  the  tomb. 

Beneath  the  chilling  breath  of  Time, 
Full  soon  the  fairest  flower  will  fade; 

And  oft,  alas!  while  in  its  prime, 
The  blooming  rose  in  dust  is  laid. 

And  thus,  how  oft  the  lovely  flower 
That  blooms  on  beauty's  cheek  so  bright, 

Like  this  pale  thing,  in  one  short  hour 
Is  withered  by  untimely  blight! 

Oh,  long  may  she  who  gave  this  rose 
Ere  yet  its  bloom  had  passed  away, 

Escape  the  dark  and  bitter  woes 
That  cloud  so  oft  the  brightest  day! 

And  when  upon  her  youthful  brow 
The  wintry  hand  of  age  is  laid, 

And  flowers  that  bloom  so  sweetly  now 
Have  withered  in  life's  evening  shade,— 


TO    A     WITHERED    ROSE.  89 

Oh,  then  may  Hope,  with  cheering  ray, 
Beam  brightly  o'er  the  gathering  gloom 

That  hangs  around  life's  closing  day 
And  settles  darkly  on  the  tomb! 

And  may  it  promise  blissful  rest, 
When  life's  dark  scenes  of  grief  are  o'er, 

In  that  bright  land  where  spirits  blest 
Will  sigh  o'er  withered  hopes  no  more. 

Emblem  of  joys  that  quickly  pass, 

And  early  hopes  that  soon  decay, 
Pale,  withered  flower,  how  soon,  alas! 

Thy  lovely  bloom  has  passed  away. 

Jackson,  Mississipi,  1847. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   THE    ROSE. 
(TWENTY  YEARS  LATER.) 


On,  Ellen  dear,  that  withered  rose 
Once  bathed  in  morning  dew, 

Which  by  thy  gentle  hand  was  plucked 
While  it  in  beauty  grew, 

Meet  emblem  was  of  thy  fair  check, 
On  which  a  transient  bloom 

Hut  for  a  summer  morn  was  bright, 
Then  faded  in  the  tomb. 

For  while  the  early  dews  of  life 

Lay  brightly  on  thy  breast, 
Kind  Nature  softly  closed  thine  eyes 

And  laid  thee  down  to  rest. 

And  many  a  weary  year  has  passed, 

And  many  a  lonely  day, 
Since  last  I  saw  thy  gentle  face, 

My  dear,  dear  Ellen  Hay! 

Vet,  though  the  chilling  hand  of  Time 
Has  on  my  brow  been  laid, 

And  I  am  drifting  down  life's  stream 
Into  its  autumn  shade, 

And  though  those  rosy  lips  of  thine, 
Once  sweet  with  fragrant  breath, 

All  cold  and  silent  long  have  slept 
Within  the  halls  of  Death, 

Still,  still  the  memory  of  those  times 
Comes  brightly  back  to  me, 

I  .ike  the  sweet  songs  my  mother  sang 
As  I  sat  on  her  knee! 


TO    THE   MEMORY   OF    THE   ROSE.         91 

Yes,  though  the  flowers  of  twenty  springs 

Have  bloomed  above  thy  head, 
And  twice  ten  winters  cast  their  snows 

Upon  thy  lonely  bed, 

And  though,  perchance,  beside  thy  grave 

Alone  the  willow  weeps, 
A  silent,  drooping  mourner  o'er 

The  spot  where  Ellen  sleeps, — 

Yet  often  visions  clear  and  bright 

Of  that  fair  face  of  thine, 
Bring  back  to  me  in  dreaming  hours 

Sweet  memories  of  lang  syne. 

I  know  thou  art  an  angel  now; 

That,  in  a  land  of  bliss, 
Thou  hast  forgotten  all  the  woes 

That  made  thee  weep  in  this; 

But  well  I  ween  there  is  on  earth 

One  little  sunny  spot, 
Which,  even  in  thy  home  of  love, 

Thou  hast  not  yet  forgot; 

It  is  a  well-remembered  place 

Beneath  a  garden-tree, 
Where  from  thy  virgin  hand  I  took 

The  rose  thou  gav'st  to  me. 

And,  Ellen  dear,  well  do  I  know, 

A  flower  thou  hast  not  found 
Amid  the  bowers  of  Paradise 

That  bloomed  on  holier  ground! 

San  Francisco,  1867. 


UNDER    A   CLOUD. 


f  >H.  how  sweetly  I  would  rest 
With  the  turf  upon  my  breast 

Lightly  laid; 

And  how  calm  would  be  this  brow, 
Which  so  throbs  with  anguish  now, 

In  death's  shade! 

Then  the  wandering  breeze  would  sigh 
As  it  softly  whispered  by, 

Round  my  tomb; 
And  the  silent  dews  that  sleep 
On  the  breast  of  Night  would  weep 

O'er  my  doom. 

And  the  bending  grass  would  wave 
O'er  my  soon-forgotten  grave, 

Fresh  and  green; 
And  the  early  wild  flowers  shed 
Fragrance  round  my  lonely  bed, 

All  unseen. 

But  how  sweetly  I  would  sleep 
In  the  silent  grave  so  deep, 

Lowly  laid; 

With  the  turf  above  my  head, 
And  the  clamp  earth  for  my  bed. 

Freshly  made. 


.hiiksi.n.  Mississippi,  1846. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND. 


PART  I. 
ECHOES   FROM   THE   LAND   OF   BEAUTY. 

"That  the  dead  are  seen  no  more,  I  will  not  undertake  to  maintain 
against  the  concurrent  and  unvaried  testimony  of  all  ages  and  of  all 
nations." — DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  IN  "  RASSELAS." 

IF  ye  would  learn  why  passions  wild 

No  longer  cloud  my  brow, 
And  why  sweet  Peace  within  my  breast 

Has  found  a  dwelling  now, 

Then  list,  and  I  a  tale  will  tell— 

A  tale  of  many  years — 
And  some  of  them  were  fair  and  bright, 

And  some  were  dimm'd  with  tears. 

The  star  that  ruled  my  natal  morn 

A  mingled  radiance  shed 
Of  rosy  beams  and  fitful  light 

Upon  my  infant  head. 

My  spirit  drank  the  rosy  light 

As  I  to  manhood  grew, 
And  from  its  gentle  beams  it  caught 

A  bright  and  cheerful  hue. 

But,  ever  and  anon,  a  flash 

Of  lurid  lightning  came, 
Which  thrilled  my  brain  with  living  fire, 

And  wrapped  my  soul  in  flame. 

And,  well  do  I  remember  now, 

When  I  was  but  a  child, 
That  oft  my  dreamy  mind  was  filled 

With  fancies  strange  and  wild. ; 


94  /"///•:    SHADOWY    LAX/). 

I  loved  to  roam  the  hoary  woods, 

And  seek  the  lonely  shade; 
To  wander  by  the  murmuring  brook, 

And  o'er  the  sunny  glade; 

I  saw  in  clouds  fantastic  forms, 

As  they  were  floating  past, 
And  whispering  voices  I  have  heard 

In  the  autumnal  blast; 

And  as  I  wandered  o'er  the  fields 

In  summer's  breezy  morn, 
I  heard  the  sound  of  rustling  wings 

Among  the  waving  corn! 

I  loved  to  watch  the  silver  moon, 
When,  with  her  witching  light, 

She  in  its  wizard  garments  clad 
The  soft  midsummer  night. 

And  many  an  hour  I  've  watched  the  glow 

Of  the  mysterious  flame, 
And  wondered  what  its  being  was, 

And  whence  its  spirit  came! 

These  were  the  restless  fancies  wild, 
Which  I  in  childhood  nursed, 

And  at  such  weird  springs  I  sought 
To  quench  an  early  thirst. 

Thus,  even  then,  this  wayward  light 

Awaked  within  my  soul 
The  restless  thoughts,  and  fancies  wild, 

Which  would  not  brook  control. 

And,  by  its  fitful,  flashing  beams, 

Oft  have  I  glimpses  seen 
Of  a  beauteous  fairy-land 

Where  mortals  ne'er  have  been. 

But,  like  the  lightning's  lurid  glare 
Across  the  brow  of  night, 


THE    SHADOWY   LAND.  95 

These  visions  bright  have  quickly  passed, 
And  faded  from  my  sight. 

The  leven  but  a  moment  gleams, 

And  then  is  seen  no  more; 
The  midnight  gloom  again  returns 

Still  darker  than  before— 

So  ever  fled  these  airy  dreams, 

And  left  my  soul  in  gloom; 
And  vainly  did  I  seek  a  land 

Where  flowers  immortal  bloom. 

And  thus  a  dreamy  childhood  passed; 

But  in  the  realms  of  thought, 
With  manhood's  daring  mind  I  still 

This  land  of  beauty  sought. 

But  ever  shrouded  was  my  soul 

In  clouds  of  sullen  hue, 
Which  on  the  cold  and  voiceless  grave 

Their  mournful  shadows  threw. 

Yet  still,  amid  the  solemn  gloom, 

I  felt  within  my  breast 
A  ceaseless  yearning  for  some  hope, 

On  which  the  soul  might  rest. 

I  knelt  before  Religion's  shrine, 

And  bade  her  priests  to  tell 
Whate'er  they  knew  of  some  bright  land 

Where  souls  immortal  dwell; 

I  well  observed  their  solemn  rites, 

And  to  their  words  gave  heed, 
But  heard  no  cheering  voice  of  hope 

In  dark,  dogmatic  creed. 

I  then  of  Reason  boldly  asked 

To  point  me  out  the  way 
That  leads  across  the  pass  of  gloom 

To  realms  of  glorious  day! 


THE   SHADOU'V   LAND. 

She  bade  me  read  the  open  book 
Which  Nature  wide  has  spread 

O'er  all  her  teeming  fields,  to  be 
By  all  her  children  read. 

I  looked  upon  the  blooming  flower, 

And  on  the  leafy  tree; 
I  looked  upon  the  smiling  earth, 

And  on  the  rolling  sea; 

I  looked  upon  the  glorious  orb 

That  clothes  the  day  in  light, 
And  on  the  ever-beaming  stars 

That  gem  the  brow  of  night — 

With  reverence  and  with  awe  I  felt 

The  grandeur  of  that  Power 
That  clothed  the  earth  with  rosy  light, 

And  planted  tree  and  flower! 

I  listened  to  the  warbling  bird 

Within  its  forest  home; 
I  looked  upon  the  peaceful  herds 

That  through  the  meadows  roam; 

And  ever  cheerful  was  the  song 

Piped  by  the  little  bird, 
And  I,  from  the  shepherd's  bleating  charge, 

No  strain  of  sorrow  heard. 

I  looked  on  man!  whose  lofty  thought 

And  whose  far-reaching  mind 
Outspeed  the  messengers  of  li-ht 

And  leave  them  far  behind; 

Like  other  things,  I  saw  him  born, 
And  weep,  and  laugh,  and  die,  — 

And  on  the  silent  bier  I  saw 
His  dust  all  sensi-K-ss  lie. 

I  listened — but  no  tidings  came 

Across  tlu-  shadowy 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  97 

Of  any  bright  and  glorious  land 
Beyond  the  silent  tomb. 

And  wherefore,  then,  I  ever  asked, 

Was  man  with  reason  born, 
But  to  be  swallowed  in  that  night 

That  knows  no  coming  morn  ? 

His  soul  is  like  a  glittering  spark, 

But  for  a  moment  bright, 
And  then  is  quenched  amid  the  gloom 

Of  an  eternal  night! 

He  's  borne  beyond  the  shadowy  pass — 

He  ne'er  returns  again; 
And  soon  his  very  name  is  lost 

Among  the  sons  of  men. 

'T  was  lately,  in  such  mood  as  this, 

I  sought  a  shady  glen, 
Far  from  the  busy  world  of  strife 

And  the  abodes  of  men. 

It  was  a  sweet,  but  lonely  spot — 

A  deep,  sequestered  dell, 
Where  gentle  spirits  well  might  haunt, 

And  bright-eyed  fairies  dwell. 

I  sat  beneath  an  ancient  oak 

Fanned  by  the  evening  breeze, 
Which  whispered  like  a  spirit's  voice 

Among  the  leafy  trees. 

Anon,  the  dreamy  angel  came 

That  rules  the  realms  of  sleep; 
I  felt  his  breath  upon  my  brow, 

And  fell  in  slumbers  deep. 

And,  in  my  dreams,  methought  I  still 

Arraigned  Creative  Power, 
Which  gave  to  man  a  sadder  lot 

Than  to  the  humble  flower. 


98  THE    SHADOWY    LAXD. 

And  wliik-  these  dark,  rebellious  thoughts 
Were  passing  through  my  mind, 

A  gently  rustling  sound  I  heard 
Upon  the  whispering  wind. 

I  looked— and  lo!  before  me  stood 

A  maiden  bright  and  fair; 
Her  face  was  like  the  silver  light, 

And  golden  was  her  hair. 

A  gently  flowing  robe  she  wore — 

A  robe  of  purest  white, 
All  skirted  with  the  rainbow's  hues 

And  fringed  with  morning  light! 

The  smile  upon  her  angel  brow 

Was  like  the  rosy  morn 
That  beams  upon  a  broken  heart, 

When  hope  is  newly  born. 

She  spake— and  on  my  raptured  ear 

The  voice  that  sweetly  fell 
Was  sweeter  than  the  dulcet  notes 

Chimed  by  a  silver  bell. 

I  sat  entranced,  with  wondering  awe, 

But  felt  no  touch  of  fear, 
When  softly  sweet  these  gentle  words 

Fell  on  my  listening  ear  : 

"Lone  child,"  she  said,  "of  mortal  birth,. 
I,  like  thyself,  was  once  of  earth; 
But  now,  beneath  celestial  skies, 
I  roam  the  fields  of  Paradise. 

"  Long  have  I  watched  thy  wayward  life 
In  this  dark  world  of  weary  strife; 
Oft  have  I  kept  thy  soul  from  sin, 
And  have  thy  guardian  spirit  been. 

"  And  from  my  peaceful  home  above, 
I  now  come  on  the  wings  of  love 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  99 

To  still  the  anguish  of  thy  breast 
And  give  thy  troubled  spirit  rest. 

Learn,  that  these  yearnings  of  thy  mind 
For  what  thou  'st  sought  in  vain  to  find, 
Tell  of  an  ever-burning  light 
That  ne'er  will  know  a  coming  night. 

What  though  dark  clouds  of  sullen  gloom 
Hang  brooding  o'er  the  silent  tomb  ? 
The  soul  outlives  the  fleeting  breath, 
Nor  feels  the  chilling  frosts  of  death ! 

'  What  though  the  flowers  you  love  on  earth 
Are  fragile  things  of  mortal  birth  ? 
They  '11  bloom  again,  with  brighter  hue, 
In  fields  that  drink  celestial  dew. 

'  No  angel  with  a  sweeter  face 
E'er  found  on  earth  a  dwelling-place 
Than  Azrael  pale,  whose  marble  brow 
Is  shaded  by  the  cypress  now. 

'  As  kind  and  gentle  is  the  one 
Who  tells  man  that  his  toils  are  done, 
As  are  the  ones  that  vigils  keep 
Around  the  cradled  infant's  sleep. 

'  Then  look  no  more  with  doubt  and  fear 
Upon  the  cold  and  silent  bier, — 
For  Death  bears  in  his  icy  hand 
A  passport  to  a  brighter  land. 

'  Behold!     I  now  will  show  to  thee 
What  few  of  mortal  birth  may  see — 
The  wonders  of  that  land  that  lies 
Beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  eyes." 

And  as  she  spoke,  upon  my  brow 

She  gently  laid  her  hand; 
When,  in  a  moment,  I  beheld 

A  bright,  enchanted  land! 


ioo  THE    SHA/)OllT    LAND, 

\  then  beheld  the  secret  laws 

Of  the  material  world; 
And  saw  its  teeming  spirit-life 

In  endless  circles  whirled. 

I  saw  the  golden  beams  of  light 
In  cloud  and  rainbow  wove, 

And  brightly  wrought  in  flower  and  leaf, 
In  garden,  field,  and  grove. 

The  subtle  spirits  I  beheld 
That  wing  the  mighty  deep, 

And  through  the  boundless  realms  of  mind 
Harmonious  order  keep. 

My  vision,  with  immortal  power, 
Glanced  through  the  depths  of  space, 

And  reached  a  point  where  human  thought 
Ne'er  found  a  resting-place. 

Still  onward  through  the  soundless  void 

My  spirit  held  its  flight. 
Beyond  the  farthest  twinkling  star 

That  beams  on  mortal  sight! 

And  still  I  saw  the  glowing  orbs 
That  light  the  deep  profound; 

The  rolling  planet,  still  beheld, 
On  its  eternal  round. 

On  weary  wing,  wild  Thought  returned, 

And  at  my  feet  I  saw 
The  ever-circling  changes  wrought 

By  reproductive  law. 

I  watched  the  birth  of  tiny  things, 
Their  growth  and  their  decay; 

I  saw  them  in  the  morning  born, 
And  perish  with  the  day. 

But  ever  from  the  crumbling  dust, 
As  it  returned  to  earth, 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  101 

Organic  life  again  appeared 
Of  more  exalted  birth! 

And  in  this  constant  change,  I  saw 

That  nought  was  lost  or  gained; 
That  each  material  atom  still 

Its  force  and  form  retained. 

I  looked  on  Man — mysterious  Man! — 

I  saw  him  proudly  stand 
The  noblest  earthly  monument 

Of  The  Creative  Hand. 

His  threefold  being  I  beheld, 

So  wondrously  combined: 
His  mortal  form!  his  glowing  soul! 

And  his  eternal  mind! 

Around  his  lofty  brow  I  saw 

A  beaming  radiance  shine, 
Which  showed  his  Maker's  image  there, 

And  stamped  his  soul  divine. 

I  saw  the  grandeur  of  his  mind, 

Which,  on  the  wings  of  Thought, 
Has  sounded  Nature's  darkest  realms, 

And  thence  rich  treasures  brought. 

I  saw  him  born  like  other  things 

That  breathe  a  mortal  breath; 
Like  other  things,  I  saw  him  fall 

Before  the  scythe  of  Death. 

But,  while  his  mortal  form  decayed, 

And  dust  to  dust  returned, 
I  marked  a  glowing  spirit-light 

That  still  all  brightly  burned. 

I  saw  it  pass  the  shadowy  rim 

That  bounds  material  sight; 
And  still  it  shone  amid  the  gloom 

With  undiminishecl  light! 


102  THE    SHADOWY    LAX/) 

I  saw  it  reach  a  spirit  land — 
A  land  of  sweet  repose, 

Where  bitter  sighs  are  never  heard, 
Nor  tear  of  sorrow  flows. 

And  on  that  blissful  radiant  shore, 
'Mid  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom, 

I  saw  that  ever-glowing  light 
An  angel  form  assume! 

Hut  mortal  tongue  may  never  tell, 
Nor  paint  may  mortal  hand, 

The  beauty  of  that  angel  form 
In  that  bright  spirit  land. 

Nor  colors  from  the  rainbow  plucked, 
I  )ashed  with  the  morning  light, 

May  e'er  portray  such  glorious  scene 
Or  paint  a  land  so  bright. 

And  from  that  beaming  land  of  love 

Came  gently  to  my  ear 
A  strain  of  music,  soft  and  sweet, 

Which  none  but  angels  hear. 

It  bore  the  melting  tones  of  love 
That  warm  the  spirit's  breast, 

And  thrill  the  soul  with  melody 
In  its  bright  home  of  rest. 

I  turned  to  whence  the  music  came, 
And,  on  a  beaming  plain, 

I  saw  a  band  of  spirits  bright 
That  sang  a  choral  strain. 

I  listened  to  the  chiming  notes 
That  through  the  etlu-r  rung. 

When  softly  s\veet  this  song  I  heard 
By  quiring  angels  sung: 


THE    SHADOWY   LAND.  103 

CHORUS. 

Now  touch  the  harp  of  softest  string 
To  which  celestial  spirits  sing 

The  songs  of  earth, 
And  which  the  sweetest  memories  bring 

Of  mortal  birth. 

Its  chords  they  breathe  an  earthly  sound 
That  calls  us  back  to  earthly  ground; 

Then,  spirits  all! 
Where  make  we  now  our  earthly  round, 

At  Memory's  call?" 

FIRST  VOICE. 

I  go  the  widow's  heart  to  cheer, 
And  dry  the  lonely  orphan's  tear; 
To  raise  the  mourner's  drooping  head 
Who  weeps  above  the  early  dead." 

SECOND   VOICE. 

And  I,  to  seek  a  lonely  spot, 
By  those  on  earth  remembered  not; 
To  bid  the  early  violet  bloom 
Upon  a  long-forgotten  tomb." 

THIRD  VOICE. 

I  go  to  seek  an  early  friend, 
Softly  o'er  his  couch  to  bend; 
To  bid  him  dream  of  days  gone  by, 
And  cherish  hopes  that  never  die." 

FOURTH    VOICE. 

And  I,  to  wander  through  a  grove, 
Where,  while  on  earth,  I  loved  to  rove; 
To  read  upon  the  beechen  tree 
A  name  that  still  is  dear  to  me!  " 

FIFTH  VOICE. 
I  go  to  list  the  ocean  wave 
That  murmurs  round  a  lonely  grave; 


104  THI-:  sn.\inn\-y  LAND. 

The  grave  of  one  I  loved  of  yore, 

Who  perished  on  an  Indian  she:- 

SIXTH    VOICE. 

"  I,  to  the  ghastly  bed  of  death 
Go  to  catch  the  latest  breath, 
And  whisper  in  the  dying  ear 
A  name  that  it  will  love  to  hear." 

CHORUS. 

"  Then,  spirits  all!  we  will  away 
Upon  the  glancing  beams  of  day 

To  earthly  lands; 

On  sweetest  memories  there  to  lay 
Our  spirit  hands." 

Hushed  was  the  song— but  echo  still 

Returned  the  notes  again; 
And  azure  hill  and  golden  cloud 

Prolonged  the  dying  strain. 

Again  my  gentle  spirit  friend 
The  dreamy  silence  broke; 

And  in  the  sweetest  tones  of  love, 
She  thus,  in  music,  spoke: 

"  Behold  the  land  of  sweet  repose, 
Which  never  care  nor  sorrow  knows! 
Behold  the  place,  where  spirits  blest 
Will  find  at  last  a  peaceful  rest! 

"  And  there,  this  life's  wild  scenes  are  o'er, 
Its  bitter  storms  are  felt  no  more; 
For  there  no  drooping  willow  weeps 
Above  the  spot  where  friendship  sleeps. 

"  But  light  as  soft  as  angels'  eyes 
I'- -ams  ever  from  ethereal  skies, 
And  rolls  in  waves  of  crystal  sheen 
O'er  fields  of  everlasting  green. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  105 

"  And  sweeter  sounds  than  e'er  were  heard 
From  tuneful  lyre  or  warbling  bird 
Forever  thrill  those  realms  above 
With  choral  songs  of  heavenly  love! 

"  Then  weep  not  o'er  man's  earthly  lot, 
Nor  dream  that  he  has  been  forgot 
By  Him  who  guides  the  sparrow's  flight 
And  rules  the  tempest  in  its  might. 

"  To  man  a  mortal  part  He  gave, 
And  bade  the  ever-yawning  grave 
His  crumbling  dust  receive  at  last, 
When  earthly  life  with  him  had  passed. 

"  Earth  is  the  garden  nursery,  where 
The  moral  being  must  prepare 
For  purer  pleasures  that  await 
The  spirit  in  a  loftier  state. 

"  And  in  this  garden  man  must  sow 
On  earthly  soil  the  seeds  that  grow, 
That  bloom  in  Paradise,  and  bear 
The  sweetest  flowers  that  blossom  there. 

"  The  fairest  flower  in  heavenly  lands 
Was  nurtured  once  by  earthly  hands  ; 
Beneath  the  smiles  of  love  it  grew, 
And  caught  from  love  its  brightest  hue. 

"  That  flower,  it  had  a  mortal  breath, 
Which  perished  in  the  shades  of  death; 
But  light  and  beauty  still  remain, 
And  bloom  in  brighter  lands  again! 

"  Sweet  are  the  notes  that  roll  along 
The  seraph's  harp  of  living  song, 
When,  in  celestial  choirs  above, 
Are  heard  the  trembling  chords  of  love! 

"  Love  fills  the  spirit's  breast  with  fire, 
And  tunes  the  angel's  golden  lyre; 


io6  ////•;   s//,unni'y   LAND. 

Still,  as  lu-  sweeps  the  sounding  strings, 
Love  is  the  melting  strain  he  sings. 

r.ut,  mingled  with  these  thrilling  notes, 

A  softer  strain  of  music  floats: 

It  is  the  chord  of  melody 

That  breathes  the  name  of  Charity! 

"  And  angels,  e'en  in  Paradise, 
Oft  wipe  a  teardrop  from  their  eyes, 
And  softly  give  a  list'nin;;  ear 
That  they  this  gentle  name  may  hear. 

"  Thou  now  hast  seen  the  land  of  peace, 
\Yhere  earthly  toils  and  troubles  cease; 
Where  weary  souls,  when  life  is  o'er, 
Will  sigh  o'er  withered  hopes  no  more. 

"  If  man  would  find  that  sweet  repose 
Which  none  but  angel  spirit  knows, 
Then  let  him  spend  his  earthly  days 
In  seeking  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

"  This  peaceful  home  is  soonest  won 
By  deeds  of  virtue,  kindly  done; 
The  wicked  heart,  the  cruel  hand, 
Long,  long  may  seek  this  happy  land — 

"  For  there  's  a  place  of  fearful  doom, 
O'erhung  by  clouds  of  sullen  gloom, 
Where  sinful  souls  must  expiate 
The  wrongs  done  in  a  mortal  state. 

"  And  there  they  must  in  darkness  stay 
Till  earthly  crimes  are  purged  away; 
But  none  may  know  or  ever  tell 
1  low  long  they  thus  in  durance  dwell. 

"  For  every  heart  they  caused  to  bleed, 
Remorse  upon  their  souls  shall  feed; 
For  every  tear  they  caused  to  fall, 
They  there  shall  taste  a  drop  of  gall. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  107 

'  But,  even  there,  redeeming  light 
Beams  softly  on  the  darkened  sight; 
While  gentle  Memory  still  remains, 
And  Hope  still  sings  her  cheering  strains. 

'  These  sisters  twain  are  ever  found 
Amid  the  gloom  that  hangs  around 
The  darkened  soul,  which  still  they  cheer 
With  promise  of  a  brighter  sphere. 

'  Sweet  Memory  bears  within  her  hand 
A  rosebud  from  another  land; 
While,  bound  with  wreath  of  fadeless  green, 
The  radiant  brow  of  Hope  is  seen! 

'  And  though  its  bloom  in  darkness  sleeps, 
The  rosebud  still  its  fragrance  keeps; 
While  Hope,  in  voice  of  cheering  strain, 
Tells  that  the  flower  will  bloom  again. 

'  And  should  bright  Hope  no  longer  sing, 
And  flowers  no  more  sweet  Memory  bring, 
Kind  Mercy  from  despair  would  save 
In  Lethe's  dark,  forgetful  wave. 

'  Oblivion's  waters  then  would  roll 
In  silence  o'er  the  insensate  soul, 
And  bear  it  to  a  soundless  shore 
Where  Reason's  voice  is  heard  no  more — 

"  For  burning  wrath  and  vengful  ire 
There  light  no  fierce,  vindictive  fire, 
But  through  the  darkness  softly  shine 
The  gentle  rays  of  love  divine. 

"  Love  rules  the  radiant  realms  of  light, 
And  reaches  the  abodes  of  night; 
All  spheres  of  light  and  darkness  prove 
That  love  's  divine— that  God  is  Love! 

"  Behold  the  face  that  smiles  on  thee! 
And  learn  how  deep  that  love  must  be 


THI:   si i. \ixnvy  LAND. 

That  calls  one  from  a  land  of  bliss 
To  seek  an  early  friend  in  this." 

I  looked!  and  saw  the  smiling  face 

Of  one  I  used  to  know, 
Whose  gentle  voice  I  loved  to  hear 

Long,  weary  years  ago. 

Of  one  who,  like  a  fragile  flower, 

While  in  her  earliest  bloom 
Was  stricken  by  the  hand  of  Death 

And  perished  in  the  tomb. 

I  saw  again  the  melting  light 

Of  her  soft,  beaming  eye, 
The  same  sweet  smile  upon  her  lips 

As  in  the  days  gone  by. 

I  listened  to  a  well-known  voice 

Which  had  been  silent  long, 
As  to  an  old,  familiar  air 

She  sweetly  sang  this  song: 

SONG. 
"  Oh,  why  do  you  sigh 

O'er  the  hopes  gone  by, 

As  you  bend  o'er  the  couch  of  the  dying  ? 

And  why  should  the  tear 

Fall  sad  on  the  bier 

Where  the  friend  of  your  bosom  is  lying? 

"  And  why  should  you  weep 

In  anguish  so  deep 
O'er  the  bed  where  a  loved  one  is  sleeping  I* 

For  sweet  is  the  rest 

Of  the  spirit  that's  blest 
In  a  land  that  knows  not  of  weeping. 

"  And  oft  from  above, 

On  the  wings  of  love, 
It  may  visit  the  home  of  your  dwelling, 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  109 

To  whisper  of  rest 
To  the  sorrowing  breast, 
When  the  bosom  with  anguish  is  swelling. 

"  Then,  soft  be  the  tear 

That  falls  on  the  bier, 
Since,  still  from  your  grief  you  may  borrow, 

The  hope  that  we  '11  meet 

Where  rest  will  be  sweet, 
In  a  land  that  knows  not  of  sorrow." 

She  ceased;— but  still  upon  my  ear 

The  lingering  echoes  hung; 
For  never  had  I  heard  before 

A  song  so  sweetly  sung. 

And  as  the  music  died  away, 

The  gentle  vision  fled — 
When  I  awoke,  and  lo!  the  dews 

Were  falling  on  my  head. 

And  on  my  cheek  a  gentle  tear 

Told  that  the  dews  of  love 
Had  fallen  softly  on  my  soul 

From  peaceful  realms  above. 


San  Francisco,  1867. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND. 

PART    II. 
RESPONSIVE    HARMONIES    OF    NATURE. 

WAS  this  a  wild,  fantastic  dream 
Of  unsubstantial  forms,  that  gleam 
Across  the  restless  mind; 
Which,  tho'  all  bright  and  beauteous  seem, 

No  traces  leave  behind  ? 
No;  for  waking,  still  I  found, 
I  heard  soft  murmurings  round 
Of  whispering  voices  near, 
Whose  sweet,  harmonious  sound 
Fell  softly  on  my  ear. 

The  magic  tones  were  low  and  sweet 
As  tinkling  sound  of  seraph's  feet. — 

Or  whispering  sigh 

Of  evening  breezes 

Murmuring  by. 

A  harp  upon  each  flow'ret  hung, 
No  blade  of  grass  but  sweetly  sung, — 

And  tiniest  things 

Seemed  vocal  all 

With  trembling  strings. 
Nor  ear  alone  the  music  heard; 
Nor  sound  alone,  my  spirit  stirred; 

For  pictures  bright 

Of  beauteous  forms 

Fell  on  my  sight. 

Around,  as  in  a  fairy-land, 
With  wondering  eyes,  I  saw 

That  forms  of  beauty  ever  spring 
From  one  eternal  law, — 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  in 

The  same  harmonious  law  that  bends 

The  rainbow  o'er  the  storm, 
Grace  to  the  drooping  willow  gives, 

And  shapes  the  daisy's  form! 

It  lights  the  beaming  eye  of  love, 

And  paints  the  lily's  hue; 
It  wings  the  rosy  beams  of  light, 

And  moulds  the  drops  of  dew! 

It  waves  the  bending,  bearded  corn; 

It  swells  the  rolling  tide; 
And  forms  the  misty  clouds  that  float 

Along  the  mountain  side! 

I  listened  to  the  tuneful  songs 

That  Light  and  Beauty  sing 
To  Nature's  ever-sounding  harp 

Of  sweet,  harmonious  string; 

Till, 

My  soul  was  wrapped  in  breathing  melody, 
And  my  spirit  drank  delicious  music. 
All  Nature  seemed  inspired  with  sensuous  being 
And  clothed  in  beauteous  robes  unseen  before — 
And  lovely  forms,  till  now  invisible, 
Smiled  on  me — within  the  drooping  willow, 
As  in  the  evening  breeze  it  gently  waved, 
Sweet  angel  forms  of  beauty  I  beheld! 
While  deep  within  my  soul,  soft,  trembling  chords 
Till  now  untouched,  which  ne'er  before  had  felt 
Great  Nature's  breath,  from  their  deep  slumbers  woke,. 
And  notes  accordant  gave  to  the  sweet  sounds 
That  wrapt  my  soul,  and  my  very  being  thrilled 
With  echoes  from  the  Spirit  Land  of  Beauty. 
I  heard  the  eternal  anthem  which  Nature 
Sings  to  her  ever-sounding  harp,  whose  chords 
Harmonic,  vibrate  'neath  the  earthquake's  tread 
And  softly  tremble  in  the  evening  breeze. 


H2  THE    SHADOWY    LANH. 

I  listened,  till 

My  soul,  entranced,  seemed  gently  borne  away, 
As  on  the  wings  of  melody. 

Anon, 

Dim  shadows  gathered  round  me,  and  on  my  sight 
Thick  darkness  fell;  which  deep  and  deeper  grew, 

Till  o'er  the  gloom  the  lightning  broke, 
And  thus  the  rolling  thunder  spoke: 

"  1  tread  the  leven's  fiery  path, 
And  lead  the  tempest  in  its  wrath, 
And  with  my  tongue  of  lurid  flame 
The  might  of  Nature  I  proclaim! 

"  But  though  I  bid  the  mountain  shake, 
And  cause  the  solid  earth  to  quake, 
I  still  in  Nature's  anthem  sing 
And  touch  a  deep,  harmonious  string." 

The  thunder  ceased— when  all  around 
I  heard  a  low  and  wailing  sound; 
It  rose  upon  the  rising  blast, 
Then  spoke  the  tempest  as  it  passed  : 

"  My  home  is  'mid  the  dunnest  gloom 

Where  red  the  lightnings  glare; 
I  ride  upon  the  stormy  clouds, 
And  winds  my  coursers  are! 

"  I  scatter  wide  the  drifting  snows 

Upon  the  Northern  gale, 
And  bid  the  angry  Southern  clouds 
Pour  down  the  smiting  hail! 

"  I  breathe  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 

I  wake  the  billow's  sleep, 
And  wrapped  in  foamy  clouds  I  ride 
Across  the  howling  deep! 

"  Yet  still  before  my  angry  breath 
The  fetid  vapors  fly; 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  113 

I  cleanse  the  pestful  spots  on  earth, 
And  clear  the  murky  sky!" 

The  tempest  ceased; — and  soft  and  low, 

Among  the  rustling  trees, 
In  breathing  notes  of  melody 

Thus  sang  the  Southern  breeze: 

"  Oh,  I  sing  a  sweet  song,  when  the  daybeam  is  born, 
And  I  breathe  on  the  brow  of  the  bright,  blushing  morn; 
But  I  sleep  when  the  sunbeam  is  bright  on  the  rose, 
And  I  sing  a  soft  air  o'er  the  evening's  repose. 

"  I  bathe  my  light  wings  in  the  sweetest  perfume 
That  the  spring  blossoms  breathe  in  their  earliest  bloom; 
I  kiss  the  soft  cheek  of  the  maiden  so  fair, 
And  I  play  'mid  the  curls  of  her  bright,  golden  hair. 

"  I  whisper  of  things  that  no  mortal  hath  seen; 
And  I  tell  of  a  land  where  no  mortal  hath  been, — 
Of  a  land  that  knows  not  of  shadow  or  gloom, 
Where  the  flowers  of  beauty  ne'er  fade  in  their  bloom. 

"  I  breathe  on  the  harp — and  its  wild,  wizard  strings 
Softly  echo  the  song  that  the  bright  spirit  sings 
At  the  twilight  of  eve,  when  returning  to  earth, 
It  seeks  a  lone  friend  in  the  place  of  its  birth." 

With  a  low,  whispering  sigh, 
The  breeze  murmured  by; 
When  thus  sang  the  rain, — 
The  soft,  pattering  rain, — 
As  gently  it  fell  from  the  sky  : 

"  I  'm  born  of  the  mist,  the  soft,  rolling  mist 

That  veils  the  dim  mountains  so  blue; 
That  melts  in  tears  of  love  on  the  earth, 
And  bathes  the  bright  morning  in  dew! 

"  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  the  wild  flowers  bloom; 

The  meadows  in  verdure  are  clad; 
The  fields  then  put  on  their  garments  of  green, 
And  the  sweet  face  of  Nature  is  glad! " 


ii4  THE    SHADOWY    LAND. 

The  cloud  floated  on— the  gloom  passed  away — 
A  sunbeam  shone  bright  from  the  West, 

And  a  rainbow  hung  in  love  o'er  the  earth 
As  Nature  sank  softly  to  rest. 

Meanwhile,  a  sound  as  of  myriad  voices 
Rolled  back  in  waves  of  music  from  the  land 
Where  spirit,  in  ethereal  garments  clothed, 
In  echoing  strains  of  sweetest  harmony 
Responds  to  Nature's  earthly  melodies. 

It  came  like  a  voice  o'er  the  dim,  misty  seas, 

Or  the  sound  of  a  harp  that's  awaked  by  the  breeze, 

Like  the  song  of  a  seraph,  it  floated  on  high, 

And  died  in  soft  echoes  in  the  depths  of  the  sky. 

I  listened;  and,  mingled  with  the  dying  strain, 
Again  I  heard  the  voice  that  in  my  dream 
So  sweetly  sang — 

And  thus,  methought,  it  sang: 

"  Listen,  listen,  son  of  earth! 

Let  thy  soul  be  still  and  hear; 
List  to  the  whispering  words  I  breathe 
Now  so  softly  in  thine  ear: 

"  In  the  silent  realms  of  sleep, 

As  an  angel,  I  have  sought  thee; 
In  the  rosy  land  of  dreams, 
As  a  spirit,  I  have  taught  thee. 

"  Again,  I  come  to  bid  thee  now 

On  Nature's  beauteous  face  to  look, 
And  teach  thy  mind  to  understand 
The  language  of  her  glorious  book; 

"  To  list  her  ever-tuneful  harp — 

Her  tuneful  harp  of  countless  strings; 
O'er  which  eternal  anthems  roll 
As  to  its  sounding  chords  she  sings. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  115 

"  Then  calmly  look  upon  her  face, 

And  boldly  come  before  her  shrine; 
Learn  wisdom  from  her  glorious  laws, 
And  listen  to  her  voice  divine! 

"  Aye,  claim  thy  lofty  heritage 

From  her  who  gave  thy  spirit  birth, 
And  placed  thee  here,  in  being  far 
Above  the  humbler  things  of  earth. 

"  Oh,  come!  and  let  thy  weary  head 

Upon  her  gentle  bosom  rest, 
And  there,  with  faith  and  love,  repose, 
As  child  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

"  Behold  how  kind  and  just  is  she 

Who  for  her  children  still  provides, 
And  never  in  vindictive  wrath 

From  them  her  face  in  anger  hides: 

"  For  thee,  above  the  smiling  earth 

She  hangs  the  azure,  arching  sky, 

And  forms  the  fleecy  clouds  that  float 

Like  beauteous  angels  softly  by. 

"  For  thee  she  clothes  the  new-born  day 

In  beaming  robes  of  rosy  light, 

And  sets  a  crown  of  glittering  stars 

Upon  the  ebon  brow  of  night. 

"  For  thee,  the  sky's  eternal  blue 

Is  mirrored  on  the  rolling  seas; 
For  thee  the  tempest  pipes  its  notes, 
And  softly  sings  the  evening  breeze. 

"  For  thee  the  mountain  rears  its  head, 

And  with  the  rattling  thunder  speaks, 
And  calls  the  forked  lightnings  there 
To  play  around  its  hoary  peaks. 

"  For  thee  she  lights  the  beaming  eye 
With  rays  of  love  that  softly  shine, 


ii6  THE    S/i.l/H>iry    LAND. 

Which  shed  a  radiance  o'er  the  brow 
That  makes  the  human  face  divine! 

"  These  are  thine,  by  right  of  birth— 
Thine,  by  the  right  of  heritage, — 
Leaves  from  the  book  where  Nature  writes 
Her  laws  of  love  on  every  page. 

"  Thine,  because  to  thee  she  gave 

The  powers  of  mind  to  understand 
Her  everlasting  songs  of  love, — 
The  works  of  her  almighty  hand. 

11  No  orphan  ones  does  Nature  know, 

But  ever  kindly  cares  for  all; 
She  rules  the  whirlwind  in  its  wrath, 
And  guides  the  snowflake  in  its  fall. 

"  The  birds  she  teaches  when  to  sing; 

The  flowers  of  spring  the  time  to  bloom; 
O'er  man  she  watches  at  his  birth, 
And  softly  lays  him  in  the  tomb. 

"  Oh,  listen,  then,  to  Nature's  voice! 

And  let  thy  soul  be  still  and  hear; 
Oh,  listen  to  the  words  she  breathes 
And  whispers  softly  in  thine  ear! 

"  Listen,  learn,  and  be  resigned; 

Patient  be,  and  murmur  not — 
Revere  the  laws  that  made  thee  man, 
And  gave  to  thee  thy  earthly  lot. 

"  These  same  laws,  when  life  is  o'er, 
Will  raise  thee  to  a  loftier  sphere, 
And  give  thy  spirit  such  a  place 
As  it  may  justly  merit  there. 

11  Mind  is  progressive — and  ever  still, 

In  its  onward,  upward  flight, 
It  seeks  its  own  affinities 
In  realms  of  intellectual  light. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  117 

"  Organic  life,  by  Nature's  laws 

The  realms  of  light  still  ever  seeks; 
And,  as  in  being  its  ascends, 
Through  higher  forms  of  beauty  speaks. 

"  The  humblest  plant  that  springs  from  earth 

Obeys  an  all-controlling  power, 
Which  forms  the  root,  and  crowns  the  stem 
With  verdant  leaf  and  blooming  flower! 

11  Behold  the  gaudy  butterfly 

With  fragile  form  and  flowery  wing! 
But  yesterday  it  was  a  worm — 
A  shapeless  and  unsightly  thing. 

"  The  vapory  clouds  of  fleecy  forms 
That  fleck  the  far-off  azure  deep, 
Were  born  of  sullen,  stagnant  pools, 
That  in  the  darkest  jungles  sleep. 

"  Thus  beauty  from  corruption  springs; 

Life  is  the  offspring  of  decay; 
And  death  is  but  a  passing  night 
From  which  is  born  a  brighter  day! 

"  Then  never  murmur  at  thy  lot; 

But  ever  with  unwavering  trust 
Rely  upon  great  Nature's  laws, — 
For  they  are  ever  kind  and  just. 

"  Repine  not,  though  Affliction's  hand 

Be  sorely  laid  upon  thy  head, 
Nor  shed  the  bitter  hopeless  tear, 
When  all  thine  earthly  joys  are  fled. 

"  For  as  the  purest  virgin  gold 

By  searching  fire  has  been  refined, 
So  earthly  sorrow,  justly  viewed, 
Refines  and  elevates  the  mind." 


n8  THE    SHAnOM'Y    I.A.\n. 

The  voice  instructive  ceased — 

When  softly  rolled  across  my  sight 
A  crystal  wave  of  spirit  light 
Of  dreamy  hue,  but  brighter  far 
Than  ever  beamed  from  sun  or  star. 

Wave  followed  wave, — till  far  and  wide 
1  saw  a  swelling,  silvery  tide, 
Which  onward  rolled  in  glittering  spray 
Far  in  the  realms  of  sunless  day. 

Anon,  along  the  sounding  sea 
Came  liquid  strains  of  melody, 
Whose  chiming  notes  a  cadence  bore, 
Which  I,  methought,  had  heard  before. 

I  listened,  till  in  accents  clear 
Sweet  voices  fell  upon  my  ear; 
Low  voices,  soft,  of  melting  strain, 
That  brought  the  past  to  me  again. 

And  as  my  vision  clearer  grew, 
Bright  forms  I  saw  that  once  I  knew, 
Which  'neath  the  drooping  willow's  shade 
With  many  tears  long  since  were  laid. 

The  beaming  smiles  of  love  they  gavr, 
Told  nothing  of  the  ghastly  grave, 
Nor  bore  their  cheeks  of  youthful  bloom 
One  shadow  of  the  mournful  tomb. 

I  heard  no  voice  of  sounding  lyre, 
Nor  seraph  saw  with  lips  of  fire; 
Nor  through  the  beaming  radiance  rung 
Loud  anthem  by  Archangel  sung. 

But,  soft  as  music's  gentlest  sigh, 
Sweet  echoes  came  of  days  gone  by, 
Which  still,  though  not  of  mortal  birth, 
Retained  the  lingering  tones  of  earth. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  119 

As  I  in  wonder  gazed,  a  zone 

Of  brighter  radiance  round  me  shone, 

Which  gave  my  strengthened  vision  power  to  range 
Ethereal  lands,  and  pierce  the  sullen  gloom 
Which  hangs  o'er  Nature's  dark,  mysterious  caves. 
The  Spirit  Land  of  Beauty  I  beheld 
Resplendent  with  harmonious  forms  of  love, 
And  glorious  with  excessive  light,  which  rolled 
In  crystal  waves  o'er  Azrael's  Vale  of  Gloom, 
And  shed  a  radiance  on  the  shores  of  Time. 

Again,  a  whispering  voice  instruction  gave  : 
"  Behold  the  living  light  of  inspiration 
Which  ever  beams  on  man's  immortal  mind! 
Which  brings  revealings  from  the  home  of  Thought 
Of  brighter  things  than  e'er  are  found  on  earth. 


"  The  Poet  lights  his  mystic  lamp 

At  this  Promethean  flame, 
And  on  the  magic  page  of  song 
He  leaves  a  deathless  name! 

"  It  fires  a  Raphael's  burning  soul 

And  lights  his  beaming  eye, 
And  lo!  the  speaking  canvas  glows 
With  things  that  never  die. 

"  Beneath  the  sculptor's  hand  it  bids 

The  snowy  marbles  tell 
Of  some  ethereal  land  of  love 
Where  forms  of  beauty  dwell! 

"  By  it  the  sage's  lofty  mind 

Scans  the  wide  fields  of  space, 
And  of  the  far-off  rolling  world 
Finds  the  appointed  place! 

"  It  falls  upon  the  tuneful  lyre, 

And  wakes  the  Orphean  string 


120  THE    SHADOWY    LAND. 

Which  trembles  with  the  notes  of  love 
To  which  the  angels  sing! 

"  'T  is  this  that  gives  to  man  on  earth 

His  joys,  his  hopes,  his  fears, 
That  lights  his  face  with  beaming  smiles 
And  melts  his  soul  to  tears. 

'"T  is  this  that  fills  his  yearning  soul 

With  glowing  thoughts  sublime 
Of  some  far  brighter  land  than  this 
Beyond  the  mists  of  time." 

"  Arm  now  thyself  with  courage!  nor  let  pale  Fear 
Thy  soul  affright;  for  now  shalt  thou  behold 
Another  and  a  grander  scene — the  last 
In  this  bright  drama." 

Alone  I  stood  amid  o'erwhelming  darkness — 
No  light  I  saw  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star; 
Hushed  was  the  whispering  voice  of  Memory, 
And  all  unconscious  of  a  past,  I  seemed 
A  lone  dweller  in  a  land  of  silence. 

******** 
Reverberate  thunder  shook  the  realms  of  gloom, 
And  from  the  abysmal  depths  loud  rumblings  came 
As  if  a  mighty  earthquake  passed — 

******** 

Again 

Deep  silence  fell,  and  darkness  more  profound 
Around  me  hung. 

Anon,  a  sound  like  voice  of  clarion  shrill, 
Or  trump,  by  breath  of  loudest  tempest  blown, 
Smote  the  sullen  face  of  Night,  and  rent  the  veil 
Which  hung  in  gloom  around  her  sable  brow — 
When,  through  the  rifted  blackness  softly  streamed 
A  dawn  of  rosy  light!  and  on  its  beams 
A  troop  of  winge"d  Echoes,  chiming  came, 
Whose  silvery  voices  told  of  coming  Beauty — 
At  sound  of  which,  pale  grew  the  brow  of  Night, 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  121 

And  Discord  affrighted  fled,  and  muttering 

Sought  a  deeper  land  of  darkness.     Meanwhile, 

Beneath  a  canopy  of  golden  clouds, 

On  which,  o'er-arching  rainbows  prismatic 

Glories  shed,  Immortal  Beauty  I  beheld 

Amid  a  band  of  choral  Harmonies. 

A  zone  of  silver  light  begirt  her  robe 

Of  azure  hue;  and  on  her  brow  she  wore 

A  crown  of  glittering  stars.     Her  servants,  were 

Incessant  Melodies!     Her  ministers, 

The  winged  Beams  of  Light!    To  these,  she  thus 

Commanding  spoke : 

"Wing,  wing  your  swift  flight 

Through  the  regions  of  night, 
Where  Discord  wild  revel  is  keeping; 

And  pierce  with  the  gleams 

Of  your  sunniest  beams 
The  deep  caves  where  Darkness  is  sleeping. 

"  Bid  the  light  zephyr  sing 

At  the  birth  of  the  spring, 
While  Nature  her  face  is  adorning; 

Bid  the  teardrops  of  Night 

Turn  to  crystals  of  light 
In  the  bright,  rosy  beams  of  the  morning. 

"  'Mid  the  leaves  of  the  rose 

Let  sweet  Beauty  repose, 
When  the  rays  of  the  morning  are  shining; 

On  the  lily's  pale  breast 

Lay  her  softly  to  rest, 
When  the  day  in  the  West  is  declining. 

"  With  the  hues  of  the  sky 

Touch  the  fair  maiden's  eye, 
When  her  face  in  the  sunlight  is  beaming; 
And  around  her  soft  bed 
Let  bright  fancies  be  shed, 
When  of  beauty  and  love  she  is  dreaming. 


122  THE    SHADOW Y    LAM). 

"  Then,  away  on  your  flight 
To  the  dwelling  of  Night, 

Where  Discord  wild  revel  is  keeping; 
And  pierce  with  the  gleams 
Of  your  sunniest  beams 

The  deep  caves  where  Darkness  is  sleeping." 

She  ceased— and  as  a  signal,  smote 
A  sounding  shell  of  magic  note: 

Then,  on  the  lightning's  wing  of  flame 
Swift  messengers  around  her  came 
With  glittering  bows  and  quivers  bright 
Which  bore  the  silver  shafts  of  light. 

Anon,  the  face  of  Darkness  grew 
All  radiant  with  a  roseate  hue, 
And  Light  and  Beauty  now  were  seen 
\Vhere  Discord  wild  before  had  been. 

And  as  the  shadows  backward  rolled 
Before  the  beaming  clouds  of  gold, 
Grim  Night  and  Gloom  fled  far  away 
Before  the  piercing  glance  of  Day. 

I  looked,  and  lo!  an  azure  sky 
Tinged  with  the  blushing  hues  of  morn 

Hung  o'er  a  couch  of  rosy  clouds, 
Where  lay  a  world  from  Darkness  born. 

It  was  a  land  of  hill  and  dale, 

Of  mountain  blue  and  flowery  vale; 

Of  meadow  green, 

And  winding  stream 

Of  crystal  sheen. 
A  smiling  land  of  forest  shade, 
Of  spreading  plain  and  sunny  glade, 

And  whispering  breeze, 

That  softly  sang 

O'er  silver  seas. 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  123 

And  it  lay  in  repose,  and  sweetly  at  rest, 
As  an  infant  asleep  on  a  soft,  heaving  breast. 

Again  the  lamp  of  Memory  burned; 
The  past  again  to  me  returned; 
When,  lo!  I  saw  this  beauteous  birth 
Was  of  the  smiling  land  of  earth. 
I  knew  it  by  its  rolling  hills, 
Its  rivers  broad  and  murmuring  rills; 

Knew  it  to  be 

The  cradle-land 

Of  Memory. 

A  whispering  breeze,  the  new-born  land 
With  balmy  breath  now  softly  fanned, 
Which  rolled  the  curt'ning  clouds  away 
That  hung  around  the  couch  of  Day. 

When,  lo!  upon  the  ethereal  blue 
Another  land  lay  full  in  view; 
A  pictured  land  of  brighter  sheen 
Than  e'er  my  eyes  before  had  seen. 

It  bore  some  likeness  to  the  earth, 
But  seemed  of  more  ethereal  birth — 
Ethereal,  as  the  light  that  beams 
Upon  the  mind  in  midnight  dreams. 

Soft,  silvery  clouds,  all  fringed  with  gold, 

Hung  o'er  its  hills  of  azure  hue, 
And  on  its  emerald  plains  of  light 

The  sweetest  flowers  of  beauty  grew. 

And  vernal  groves,  and  crystal  brooks, 
And  silver  lakes,  and  streams  were  there, — 

And  beautous  birds,  whose  warbling  notes 
Rang  sweetly  through  the  ambient  air. 

And  the  beings  I  saw  in  that  land  so  bright 

Were  robed  in  the  beams  of  the  rosiest  light; 

And  the  bloom  on  their  cheeks  and  the  light  of  their  eyes 

Was  the  bloom  of  the  rose  and  the  light  of  the  skies! 


124  ///A'    SHADOWY    LAND, 

A  gulf  I  saw  where  Darkness  slept, 
Which  these  two  worlds  asunder  kept, — 

O'er  whose  unsounded  depths,  cold  gloomy  clouds 
Hung  brooding,  which  cast  upon  the  earthly  shore 
A  chilling  shade. 

Again,  I  looked;  and  lo! 

A  glowing  rainbow  spanned  the  gulf 
O'er  which  the  brooding  Darkness  hung, 

And  far  adown  the  silent  depths 
Its  skirting  rays  of  brightness  flung. 

And  the  swift-winged  light  o'er  the  rainbow's  arch 

Bore  the  bright  form  of  Beauty  from  the  land  of  its  birth; 

And  smiling  it  came,  and  softly  it  spread 
A  mantle  of  love  o'er  the  bosom  of  earth! 

And  her  fair  face  grew  bright  with  the  blushes  of  love, 
As  the  spirit  of  Light  her  warm  bosom  caressed, 

And  the  sweet  smile  of  hope  beamed  bright  on  her  brow 
As  the  sunlight  of  beauty  lay  soft  on  her  breast. 

And  things  of  beauty  then  were  born; 

Then  fair  the  lily  grew; 
The  opening  rosebud  spread  its  leaves 

And  drank  the  morning  dew! 

And  whispering  zephyrs  softly  sang 

Around  the  flowery  bed, 
And  o'er  the  rosy  couch  of  Love 

Tin-  sweetest  fragrance  shed. 

This  beauteous  picture  passed  away, 
As  fades  a  dream  at  dawn  of  day; 
When  I,  in  wonder,  looked!  and  found 
That  I  was  still  on  earthly  ground. 

But,  though  that  vision  passed  away 
Like  dreams  at  morning  light, 


THE    SHADOWY    LAND.  125 

Yet  on  bright  Fancy's  beaming  page 
The  picture  still  is  bright! 

And  this  is  why  dark  passions  wild 

No  longer  cloud  my  brow, 
And  why  sweet  peace  within  my  breast 

Has  found  a  dwelling  now. 


San  Francisco,  1869. 


HYMN  TO  THE  ANGELS  OF  BEAUTY. 


OH,  ye  angels  of  peace!  ye  bright  spirits  above! 
Whose  home  is  the  dwelling  of  sweet  beauty  and  love, 
From  my  soul  ye  have  chased  the  wild  phantoms  of  night, 
And  clothed  my  dark  spirit  in  the  garments  of  light. 

On  the  breath  of  the  morn  ye  have  borne  me  away 
From  the  regions  of  Gloom,  to  the  dwelling  of  Day; 
On  the  bosom  of  eve,  ye  have  soothed  me  to  rest, 
And  spread  your  soft  wings  of  peace  o'er  my  breast. 

Ye  have  breathed  on  my  brow — wild  passion  is  stilled— 
My  soul  with  the  sunlight  of  beauty  is  filled! 
And  swift-winged  Thought,  boldly  mounting  from  earth,. 
Claims  kindred  with  spirits  in  the  land  of  its  birth! 

My  eyes  ye  have  touched!— with  rapture  I  've  seen 
Sweet  visions  of  love,  where  a  desert  had  been; 
All  radiant  in  hue,  and  beauteous  in  form 
As  the  rainbow  that  gilds  the  skirts  of  the  storm. 

On  Nature  I  look  in  the  light  of  the  morn; 
With  the  birth  of  the  Day,  new  beauties  are  born; 
And  the  sunlight  of  eve  lays  soft  at  its  close 
As  a  light  golden  veil  o'er  an  angel's  repose. 

On  her  lone  face  I  look  by  the  moon's  silver  light, 
And  new  glories  behold  in  her  garments  of  night; 
Her  lamps,  as  they  burn,  her  orbs,  as  they  roll, 
Pour  joy  on  my  spirit,  and  light  on  my  soul! 

I  look  upon  death — and  I  shed  not  a  tear 
O'er  the  pale  form  of  Love  that  sleeps  cold  on  the  bier; 
For  the  sunbeams  of  Hope  play  bright  on  the  tomb, 
And  shed  a  soft  light  o'er  its  darkness  and  gloom. 

And  bright-visioned  Faith,  on  pinions  of  might, 
My  spirit  has  borne  to  a  land  of  delight! 


HYMN  TO  THE  ANGELS  OF  BEAUTY.     127 

Beyond  the  black  river,  whose  dark  rolling  waves 
Soft  echoes  return  from  the  shore  that  it  laves. 

To  a  land,  where  sweet  is  the  spirit's  repose 

As  a  sunbeam  that  sleeps  on  the  breast  of  the  rose; 

Where  a  silvery  light  beams  bright  from  a  sky 

On  hopes  that  ne'er  perish,  and  loves  that  ne'er  die. 

Then  hail!  to  the  angels  and  spirits  above, 
Whose  home  is  the  dwelling  of  sweet  Beauty  and  Love, 
Who  have  chased  from  my  soul  the  wild  phantoms  of  night,. 
And  my  spirit  have  clothed  in  the  garments  of  light. 

San  Francisco,  1867. 


HARMONY. 


I  PAINT  the  bright  bow  on  the  skirts  of  the  storm; 
I  give  the  fair  maiden  the  grace  of  her  form; 

I  hang  the  bright  clouds  o'er  the  gates  of  the  West, 
And  fold  the  soft  leaves  on  the  rose's  sweet  breast. 

The  garments  I  wear  with  colors  are  wrought 

By  green  leaf  and  flower,  from  the  sunbeam  caught. 

The  sound  of  my  voice  in  music  is  heard — 

In  the  sigh  of  the  breeze,  and  the  song  of  the  bird. 

I  dwell  with  bright  spirits  and  angels  above, 

And  the  language  I  speak,  is  the  language  of  Love  ! 

San  Francisco,  1884. 


LOSADA; 

A    MEXICAN-INDIAN     TALE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Three  centuries  after  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  by  Hernando  Cortez,  the 
Mexican-Indian  population  re-conquered  the  country  and  drove  the  Span 
iards  from  the  land  of  their  Aztec  ancestors. 

This  dramatic  story  is  founded  on  the  following  historic  facts  : 

1.  The  Mexican  War  of  Independence,  which  commenced  in  the  early 
part  of  the  present  century  and  ended  in  1822,  during  which  many  Span 
iards  were  slaughtered  by  the  Mexican-Indian  population  of  the  country. 

2.  The  notorious  antipathy  of  the  "  Triguetto"  or  Mexican,  towards  the 
"Gachupin,"  or  Spaniard. 

3.  The  history  of  Losada,  the  Robber-Chief  of  Jalisco,  who,  for  a  long 
time,  maintained  a  defiant  war  against  the  government  of  Mexico.     'Tis 
said  (with  what  truth  I  know  not)  that,  having  suffered  a  grievous  wrong 
from  the  owner  of  the  estate  to  which  he  belonged  as  a  peon,  he  swore 
eternal  vengeance  against  the  Spanish  race,  fled  to  the  mountains,  organ 
ized  a  band  of  his  countrymen,  and  became,  as  is  well  known,  a  powerful 
chief.    He  is,  however,  a  modern  character;  and  hence  the  story,  so  far  as 
he  is  concerned,  is  deficient  with  respect  to  unity  of  time. 

All  of  the  characters,  save  that  of  Losada,  are  fictitious,  intended  only 
to  represent  historic  events  and  the  habits  and  character  of  the  Indian 
population  of  the  country.  __ 

PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

MEXICAN-INDIANS. 

LOSADA,  in  love  with  Rosita,  and  a  Peon  on  the  estate  of  Don  Alonzo. 
ROLO,  a  gray-haired  Seer,  Harper,  and  Poet. 
AZTEC  PRIEST. 
ROSITA,  an   Orphan  Maid;  foster  child  of  Tcmora,  and  in  love  with 

Losada. 
TEMORA,  Mother  of  Losada. 

YOUTHS,  MAIDENS,  AND  WARRIORS. 

SPANIARDS. 

DON  ALONZO,  a  rich  and  profligate  Spaniard,  owner  of  the  estate  to 

which  Losada,  Temora,  and  Rosita  belong. 
DIEGO,  a  tool  of  Don  Alonzo. 
PEDRO,  Mayordomo  on  estate  of  Don  Alonzo. 
A  SERVANT. 

COMMANDANT,  AND  SERVANTS  OF  DON  ALONZO. 


SCENE  :     Mexico. 


130  LOSADA. 

ACT    I. 

SCENE  I. — Dwelling  of  TEMORA  on  the  estate  of  DON 
ALONZO.     Active  volcano  in  the  distance. 

[/•Inter  ROLO  and  TEMORA.] 

ROLO. 

Where,  Temora,  is  thy  son  Losada? 
TBMORA. 

Down  in  the  valley,  by  the  ruin  old, 

Where  the  drooping  willows  wave 
O'er  a  lone  and  mossy  grave. 

ROLO. 

I  know  the  spot — it  is  his  father's  grave. 
Tlascala  was  by  birth  of  royal  blood, 
Descended  from  a  race  of  ancient  kings, 
Although  he  died  a  slave. 

TEMORA. 

And  left  his  son 

A  peon  to  the  accursed  stranger! 
Would,  Rolo,  I  had  died  ere  he  was  born 
To  be  a  peon  slave. 

ROLO. 

Alas,  it  was  a  fatal  day 
When  Aztlan's  glory  passed  away! 

[Chants  a  wild  lament  to  the  inn  sic  of  his  harp.~\ 

The  sun  rose  red  o'er  the  flaming  mount, 
And  dark  rolled  the  clouds  in  the  North; 

The  mountain  shook  with  the  earthquake's  tread,. 
And  hot  was  the  breath  of  the  South! 

The  foe  came  down  like  a  mountain  storm, 

And  fierce  was  the  fight  on  the  plain; 
The  earth  was  drenched  and  tin-  strt-ams  ran  red 
With  the  crimson  blood  of  the  slain1 


LOSADA.  131 

There  was  weeping  and  wailing  that  night; 

No  light  in  the  temple  was  seen; 
The  night-bird  croaked,  and  the  wild  wolf  howled 

On  the  plain  where  the  battle  had  been! 
[Enter  Chorus. .] 

CHORUS. 
Alas,  that  the  glory  of  Aztlan  has  passed, 

That  her  days  of  power  are  o'er, 

That  the  songs  of  her  maidens  and  shouts  of  her  youths 
Are  heard  in  her  valleys  no  more! 
Are  heard  in  her  valleys  no  more — 
That  the  songs  of  her  maidens  and  shouts  of  her  youths 

Are  heard  in  her  valleys  no  more! 
[RoLO  changes  his  lament  to  a  wild,  prophetic  chant.~\ 
But,  hark!  I  hear  the  measured  tread 
Of  arme'd  men  to  battle  led! 
I  see  the  watchfire  burning  bright 
On  distant  hill  and  mountain  height! 
I  see  a  wild  and  mountain  land 
Where  Aztlan's  sons  in  battle  stand! 
I  see  the  haughty  Cavalier 
Borne  down  before  the  Indian  spear! 
I  hear  the  Aztec  battle-cry 
Above  the  groans  of  those  who  die! 
*         *         *         *         -x-         *         * 

The  fight  is  o'er;  from  hill  and  plain 
Is  borne  a  wild  and  thrilling  strain — 
It  is  the  song  of  Liberty! 
Again  are  Aztlan's  children  free! 
[Enter  LOSADA  hurriedly.'] 

LOSADA. 

Now,  by  yon  flaming  mount  that  lights  our  land, 
And  by  my  father's  honored  tomb,  I  swear 
That  I  shall  live  to  see  that  glorious  day, 
Or  die  a  warrior's  death! 

\_Exeunt. ] 


1 32  LOS  AD  A. 

SCENE  II. —  Valley  surrounded  by  loftv  mountains.  Time. 
Vernal  Equinox.  Occasion,  Indian  feast  and  ceremonies, 
welcoming  the  opening  Spring.  Sun-dance. 

[Enter  PRIEST  and  chorus  of  youths  and  maidens  decked 
with  flowers.] 

PRIEST. 

Oh  Thou  who  rul'st  the  raging  storm, 

And  bidst  the  lofty  mountains  quake! 
Accept  thy  people's  humble  thanks — 

The  offerings  that  thy  children  make. 

[Makes  an  offering  of  fruit  and  a  libation  of  pulque.     Enter 
ROSITA  dressed  to  represent  Spring.] 

CHORUS. 

All  hail,  bright  Spring,  who's  coming  now, 
With  rosy  cheek  and  sunny  brow! 

ROSITA. 
I  come  from  the  land  of  the  South; 

I  'm  born  of  the  sunbeam  and  shower; 
I  breathe  the  soft  airs  of  the  morn! 

I  paint  the  bright  leaf  of  the  flower! 

My  cheek  bears  the  bloom  of  the  rose; 

The  birds  learn  their  love-songs  from  me; 
I  breathe  on  the  brows  of  the  young, 

And  their  hearts  are  merry  with  glee! 

[All  join  in  a  merry  dance  to  the  wild  music  of  ROLO'S 
harp.  Enter  during  the  dance  ALONZO  and  DIEGO,  dis 
guised  as  peons.  ] 

ALONZO  (aside  to   DIEGO). 
How  beautiful  that  Indian  maiden 
Who  wears  the  flowery  garb  of  Spring!     Some  plan 
I  must  devise  for  her  possession. 

[Exeunt  ALONZO  and  DIEGO.] 

CHORUS. 

Now  let  us  all  drink  to  the  rosy-cheek'd  Spring, 
While  the  flowers  are  fresh  and  the  sunbeams  are  bright; 


LOS  A  DA.  133 

We  will  drink!  we  will  drink!  to  the  rosy-cheek'd  Spring 
While  our  hearts  are  merry  and  our  spirits  are  light! 

We  will  drink!  we  will  drink!  to  the  rosy-cheek'd  Spring 
While  our  hearts  are  merry  and  our  spirits  are  light! 
[Each  one  drinks  a  cup  of  pulque. ~\ 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  I.  —  Room  in  ALONZO'S    house.     ALONZO  and 
DIEGO  seated  at  a  table  drinking  wine. 

ALONZO. 

Come,  fill  thy  cup,  Diego;  drink  freely! 
I  need  thy  service,  and  will  pay  thee  well, 
If  thou  art  faithful. 

DIEGO. 
Speak,  Alonzo;  and  I  '11  obey. 

ALONZO. 
Thou  saw'st  the  maiden  at  the  Indian  feast? 

DIEGO. 

She  who  was  dressed  to  represent  the  Spring  ? 
ALONZO. 

Aye,  the  same! 
DIEGO. 
What  of  her? 

ALONZO. 

I  would  have  her  with  me  ere  'tis  midnight. 
Thou  know'st  the  spring  in  the  banana  grove 
Hard  by  old  Temora's  hut? 

DIEGO. 
Aye,  I  know  it  well! 

ALONZO. 
There,  as  I  learn,  Rosita  goes  alone 


134  LOS  A  DA. 

At  twilight  to  fill  Temora's  water-jar. 
Hard  by,  there  is  a  dense  and  leafy  copse; 
There  go,  and  lie  in  wait  until  she  come. 

DIEGO. 

And  then  ? 
ALONZO. 

Seize  and  hither  bring  her;  nor  use  more  force 
Than  may  be  strictly  needful  for  that  purpose. 
Thou  understand'st  me  ? 

DIEGO. 
I  do,  and  will  obey  thee. 

ALONZO. 

'Tis  well;  thou  know'st  me,  Diego — I  'm  generous; 
Can  reward  thee  well — aye,  and  punish,  too! 
This  dagger's  point  is  sharp!     Remember! 

DIEGO. 

Trust  me;  I  '11  remember — 
More  than  he  thinks.    [Aside.] 
[Exeunt.} 


SCENE   \\.-Atthespring.     Twilight. 

[Enter  LOSADA  and  ROSITA,  with  water-jar.~\ 

ROSITA. 

Why  that  frown  upon  thy  brow,  Losada  ? 
Art  angry  with  me  ?    Come,  I  Ml  sing  to  thee! 

[Sings.]     Come,  Losada!  let  us  go 

Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows! 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  tin-  i 

Let  us  go,  let  us  -«> 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows' 


LOSADA.  135 

Nay,  Losada;  look  not  thus!— Speak  to  me! 
Speak  to  Rosita! 

LOSADA. 

Rosita! 

ROSITA. 

I  listen,  Losada. 

LOSADA. 

Thou  lov'st  me,  Rosita  ? 

ROSITA. 

As  the  rosebud  loves  the  morning  sun! 
Why  ask  the  question  ? 

LOSADA. 

Know'st  thou  the  proud  Alonzo,  he  who  claims 
This  rich  estate  with  all  its  peon  slaves  ? 

ROSITA. 
I  know  him  not. 

LOSADA. 

Nor  the  murderous  thief,  Diego  ? 
ROSITA. 

No. 

LOSADA. 

Both  were  at  our  feast,  disguised  as  peons. 

I  saw  Alonzo  fix  his  eye  on  thee 

As  the  wild  hungry  wolf  looks  on  the  lamb. 

He  's  marked  thee  for  his  prey  :  I  know  him  well; 

The  fiend,  Diego,  will  be  his  willing  tool 

To  work  thy  ruin! 

ROSITA. 

I  fear  him  not.     Dost  thou  not  remember 
That  once  I  slew  a  savage  mountain  wolf? 

LOSADA. 

Aye,  Rosita!  but  savage  mountain  wolf 

Is  as  a  lamb  compared  with  these  base  villains! 


136  LOSADA. 

ROSITA. 

I  fear  them  not— 

For  I  am  an  Indian  maid,  Losada. 
And  bear  my  father's  spirit. 

LOSADA. 

Aye,  Rosita,  I  know  that  thou  art  brave, 
And  will  not  faint  at  sight  of  blood— 
[Offers  her  a  dagger.] 

Take  this!  it  is  with  venom  tipped,  so  deadly 
That,  if  it  draw  one  single  drop  of  blood, 
The  wound,  within  an  hour,  is  mortal. 

ROSITA. 
I  need  it  not,  Losada. 

LOSADA. 

Rosita!  rememberest  thou  a  sister 

Who,  while  an  infant,  bore  thee  in  her  arms 

As  the  fond  mother  does  her  new-born  babe  ? 

ROSITA. 

As  a  pleasant  dream,  I  do  remember  one 
Who  called  me  loving  names;  sang  to  me, 
And  soothed  me  on  her  breast  to  sweet  repose. 

LOSADA. 

Thy  loving  sister  'twas — the  sweet  Juanita! 
Her  cheek  was  like  the  budding  rose;  her  eye 
\\'us  gentle  as  the  mountain  fawn's,  and  bright 
As  the  silver  star  that  hails  the  coming  morn. 
Aye,  she  was  lovely  as  a  flower  of  spring  ! 
Diego  watched  her  plucking  flowers  for  thee, 
And,  with  soft,  deceitful  words,  beguiled  her. 
She  loved  him!     He  for  a  while  himself  amused, 
And  then,  with  laughing  scorn,  he  cast  her  off! 
She  sought  the  lake  that  in  the  valley  sleeps, 
And  in  its  peaceful  bosom  found  repose. 

ROSITA. 
Give  me  the  dagger!    Ere  to-morrow's  sun 


LOSADA.  137 

Has  hid  his  face  behind  the  western  hills, 

By  its  venomed  point,  I  swear,  that  I  will  take 

Such  vengeance  as  will  make  a  demon  quail, 

And  turn  the  cheek  of  Darkness  pale  with  horror! 

Aye;  thou  shalt  see  how  an  Indian  maid 

Can  avenge  a  murdered  sister's  wrongs. 

To  thy  home,  Losada;  I  '11  fill  my  jar 

And  follow  thee. 

LOSADA. 

'T  is  well. 

[Exit  LOSADA.  ROSITA  stoops  at  the  spring  to  fill  her 
water-jar.  DIEGO  springs  from  the  willow  copse  and 
carries  her  off.~\ 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  Room  in   DON  ALONZO'S  palace.     ROSITA 
alone. 

[Enter  servant.'} 

ROSITA. 
What  place  is  this,  and  who  has  brought  me  hither? 

SERVANT. 

This  is  the  palace  of  Don  Alonzo; 
And  by  his  orders  in  this  room  thou  'rt  placed, 
And  by  him  I  'm  charged  to  do  thy  bidding. 
Is  there  aught  that  thou  wouldst  have  ? 

ROSITA. 
Nothing.     Comes  your  master  soon  ? 

SERVANT. 

He  comes  anon. 
ROSITA. 

Enough!     Leave  me. 
\_Exit  servant.] 

Now,  spirit  of  my  father,  arm  thy  child! 
Make  her  tongue  a  dagger  tipped  with  poison; 


;UJri7ERSIT?] 

%xm^ 


•138  LOSAD.l. 

Give  to  her  beaming  eye  the  lightning's  flash, 
That  it  may  blast  the  villain's  sight! 
[/Cnfer  ALONZO,  healed  with  wine,  and  singing.'] 
Indian  maiden,  list  to  me! 
I  will  make  a  queen  of  thee, 
Slaves  to  thee  shall  bow  the  knee 

And  obey  thy  slightest  will. 
The  richest  garments  shall  be  thine; 
Brightest  jewels  of  the  mine; 
Thy  drink  shall  be  the  rosy  wine, 

Of  pleasure,  thou  shalt  have  thy  fill — 
Then,  give  thy  heart  and  hand  to  me, 
And  let  us  now  right  happy  be! 

ROSITA. 

Touch  me,  and  by  my  father's  soul,  I  swear 
I  '11  drive  this  dagger  to  thy  polluted  heart 
And  send  thy  drunken  soul  to  its  account! 
For  sooner  would  I  to  my  bosom  take 
A  slimy  toad,  than  have  thee  touch  my  hand. 
Away!     Away!    Touch  me  at  thy  peril! 

ALONZO. 

'Tis  well;  I  Ml  give  thee  time  to  change  thy  mind. 
I  Ml  keep  the  wild  bird  caged  till  it  will  sing!    [Aside.] 


SCENE  II.—  TEMORA'S  dwelling.     Night. 
[Enter  TEMORA.] 

T  KM  OR  A. 

Oh,  sad  is  the  heart  of  Temora! 

Oh,  weary,  oh,  weary  and  sad! 
For  gone  are  the  days  of  her  youth, 

And  her  spirit  no  more  will  be  glad. 
No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 

And  her  spirit  no  more  will  be  glad. 


LOSADA.  139 

The  flowers  will  return  in  the  spring, 

And  the  sunshine  when  the  tempest  is  o'er; 
But  the  joys  and  the  hopes  of  her  youth 
Will  return  to  Temora  no  more. 
No  more!  no  more!  no  more! 
Will  return  to  Temora  no  more. 
[Enter  LOSADA.] 

LOSADA. 
Why  sing'st  thou  a  song  so  sad,  mother? 

TEMORA. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  past,  Losada; 

Of  the  weary  past,  and  my  heart  was  heavy. 

Hast  thou  seen  Rosita  ? 

LOSADA. 

Aye,  mother;  an  hour  or  more  ago 

I  left  her  at  the  spring  to  fill  her  jar; 

But  she  tarries  long,  and  I  'm  uneasy 

Lest  something  foul  has  now  to  her  befall' n. 

Hast  seen  a  stranger  lurking  near  our  house  ? 

TEMORA. 

I,  from  the  window,  saw  a  bearded  man, 
Who,  with  stealthy  step,  approached  the  leafy  copse 
Hard  by  the  spring. 

LOSADA. 

How  long  since  you  saw  him,  mother? 

TEMORA. 

Just  as  the  spirit  of  the  day  departed. 

LOSADA. 
Describe  his  looks  and  dress! 

TEMORA. 

Dark,  curling  hair;  wicked,  wolfish  eyes; 
Armed,  and  clothed  in  garb  of  Caballero. 

LOSADA. 

'Tis  he — the  black  and  doubly  damned  assassin! 
1Tis  Diego,  the  murderer  of  Juanita, 


LOSADA. 

Who  now  has  seized  and  borne  away  Rosita! 
But,  by  my  father's  soul,  I  '11  have  revenge! 

n  MORA. 
Alas!    Alas!    My  heart  is  broke,  Losada! 

[Enter  ROLO,  bearing  an  empty  water  jar.'} 
Rolo,  the  wolf  has  robbed  me  of  my  lamb! 

ROLO. 

Hard  by  the  spring  I  found  this  empty  jar, 
Near  which  I  marked  the  signs  of  recent  struggle. 

TEMORA. 

'Tis  Rosita's!    Alas,  would  I  had  died 
Ere  I  had  lived  to  see  this  bitter  day! 
But  no;  I  must  not  —  cannot  —  will  not  die 
Until  I  've  had  revenge!—  till  1  have  quenched 
My  burning  hate  in  blood! 

Away,  Losada! 

Nor  let  me  see  thy  face  till  thou  canst  bring 
The  murderer's  quivering  heart,  that  I  may  slake 
My  vengful  hate  in  its  accursed  blood! 

LOSADA. 
Mother! 

TEMORA. 

Away!  away  at  once  and  do  my  bidding, 
Or  take  a  mother's  curse! 

LOSADA. 
Enough!     I  go  for  vengance! 


TEMORA. 

Oh,  sad  is  the  heart  of  Temora! 

Oh,  weary,  oh,  weary  and  sad! 
For  gone  are  the  days  of  her  youth, 

And  her  spirit  no  more  will  be  glad. 

ROLO. 
And  her  spirit  no  more  will  be  glad. 


LOS  A  DA.  141 

TEMORA. 

The  flowers  will  return  in  the  spring, 
And  the  sunshine  when  the  tempest  is  o'er; 

But  the  joys  and  the  hopes  of  her  youth 
Will  return  to  Temora  no  more. 

ROLO. 

Will  return  to  Temora  no  more. 
[ExeuntJ} 


SCENE  III. — Room  in  DON  ALONZO'S  palace.     ROSITA 
alone.     (Same  as  Scene  I. ) 

ROSITA. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  midnight,  yet  no  one  comes. 
[Draws  a  dagger  from  her  bosom .] 
One  friend  I  have,  at  least,  who'll  not  forsake  me! 
The  tyrant  doubtless  sleeps  a  drunken  sleep — 
Let  him  come!  the  Indian  maiden  fears  him  not; 
She  hears  her  father's  angry  voice,  and  feels 
His  vengeful  spirit  on  her. 

[A  voice  outside  singing  J\ 

Come,  Rosita!  let  us  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows! 

ROSITA. 

Hark!  't  is  Losada's  voice — 
I  know  it  well. 

[ROSITA  answers.'] 
Soon,  Losada,  I  will  be 

Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 
Where  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 


142  LOSADA. 

Where  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 

LOSADA. 
Now,  by  his  love,  Losada  swears, 

No  sleep  his  eyes  shall  close 
Till  on  his  throbbing  breast  shall  lie 

His  own  sweet  mountain  rose! 

And  woe  to  him,  whose  ruthless  hand 
Shall  touch  the  virgin  breast! 

Whose  breath  shall  soil  the  rosy  cheek 
Losada's  lips  have  pressed! 

His  fiery  vengeance,  like  his  love, 
One  moment  shall  not  sleep, 

But  fann'd  by  fiercest  flames  of  hate 
Shall  burning  vigils  keep! 

Then,  let  Rosita's  heart  be  brave, 
And  trust  the  hate  and  love 

That  soon  shall  break  the  bars  that  cage 
Losada's  mountain  dove. 

He 's  gathering  his  men 
In  mountain  and  glen; 
Their  lances  are  long — 
Their  bow-strings  are  strong — 
Then  let  Rosita  trust  Losada's  love! 


SCENE  IV. — A  mountain  valley. 

[Enter  ROLO.] 

ROLO  (chanting  to  the  music  of  his  harp}. 
No  more  shall  Rolo's  sounding  harp, 

In  trembling  accents  low, 
Hid  him  pour  out  his  mournful  notes 

In  wailing  songs  of  woe. 
No  longer  by  his  aged  eyes 
Shall  bitter  tears  be  shed; 


LOSADA.  143 

No  longer  shall  he  weep  and  sigh 

O'er  Aztlan's  glories  fled. 

[//<?  changes  his  rhythm  into  a  wild  chant  of  delight.'} 
He  now  feels  in  his  soul 

That  the  storm-cloud  has  passed— 
That  the  sunshine  has  come 

To  his  country  at  last! 
For  he  touches  the  chords 

And  a  wild  music  rings 
That  echoes  the  songs 

That  proud  Victory  sings! 
And  he  feels  in  his  soul 

That  the  night  has  now  passed — 
That  the  sunshine  has  come 

To  his  country  at  last! 
[Enter  LOSADA  and  warriors.} 

LOSADA. 

Sons  of  Aztlan's  ancient  race! 

Ye  who  for  the  tyrant  toil ! 
Ye  who  long  have  sighed  and  wept 

Here  upon  your  native  soil — 

Let  us  rise,  and  stand  like  men! 

No  longer  let  us  bow  the  knee; 
Let  us  by  our  fathers  swear 

That  again  we  shall  be  free! 

The  heart-broke  mother's  weeping  now; 

The  helpless  maiden  's  torn  away 
By  ruthless  hand  and  brutal  force 

To  make  a  tyrant's  holiday! 

(To   ROLO.) 
Gray-haired  Rolo!  tell  us  now 

What  our  future  fate  shall  be: 
Shall  Aztlan's  sons  still  meekly  bow 

To  tyrant  lords  the  slavish  knee? 

ROLO. 

The  eagle  is  sharpening  his  beak — 
The  vulture  is  waiting  the  day, 


144  LOSADA. 

\Vlien  the  field  of  battle  shall  give 
The  flesh  of  the  slaughtered  for  prey! 

The  eagle  his  talons  shall  bathe 

In  the  fresh,  warm  blood  of  the  slain; 

The  vulture  shall  gorge  on  the  dead 
That  fall  on  mountain  and  plain! 

LOSADA. 
Then,  sons  of  the  mountain,  now  kneel, 

And  swear  by  the  graves  of  the  dead, 
That  in  the  cause  of  our  people  oppressed 

The  best  of  our  blood  shall  be  shed! 

CHORUS. 

\Ve  swear  by  the  dead — 

By  the  hearts  that  have  bled — 

By  the  tears  we  have  shed — 

LOSADA. 
That  we  '11  strike  like  the  bolt 

That  falls  from  the  cloud, 
When  the  tempest  is  raging 

And  the  thunder  is  loud! 

CHORUS. 

That  we  '11  fight  on  the  field, 
With  spear  and  with  shield, 
Nor  in  death  will  we  yield 
'Till  our  country  is  free! 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE   I. — Room  in  ALONZO'S  palace.     ROSITA  alone. 

[/:ti/er  DIEGO,  singing.'} 

DIEGO. 

Indian  maiden,  fly  with  me 
Where  the  mountain  breeze  is  free, 
Where  the  crystal  streamlet  flows 
By  the  blooming  mountain  rose. 


LOS  A  DA.  145 

Alonzo's  passion  fiercely  burns — 
Fly  with  me  ere  he  returns — 
I  '11  take  thee  to  a  mountain  glen 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  wicked  men. 

ROSITA  (aside}. 

'T  is  the  murderer  of  Juanita— Demons  of  hate, 
Now  aid  me  in  mine  act  of  vengeance  fierce! 

[Sings. ~\  The  Indian  maid  will  give  her  hand 
And  fly  with  thee  to  any  land, 
No  matter  where,  so  she  can  be 
Like  the  mountain  breezes  free! 
If,  from  thine  arm  thou  'It  let  her  take 
One  crimson  drop,  with  which  to  make 
A  mystic  symbol  that  shall  be 
A  bond  of  faith  'twixt  her  and  thee. 

DIEGO. 
By  San  Pedro,  a  strange  demand!     Why  make  it? 

ROSITA. 

'Tis  a  form  of  oath  among  our  people 
Which  no  one  dares  to  violate. 

DIEGO. 
I  've  nought  with  which  to  draw  the  crimson  drop. 

ROSITA. 

Here,  I  have  this  dagger — the  point  is  sharp! 
Take  it  thyself  and  use  it. 

[ DIEGO   takes  the  dagger  and  makes  a  slight  wound  on 
his  arm.~\ 

DIEGO. 

There— 

'T  is  done;  now  make  the  sign  as  you  desire 
And  let  us  haste  away. 
[ ROSITA  traces  on  her  arm  the  figure  of  a  serpent.  ] 

ROSITA. 

If  thou  shalt  play  me  false,  may  this  become 
A  living  serpent  in  thy  perjured  heart! 


146  LOSAI)  \. 

DIKGO. 

Haste,  maiden,  haste!  I  fear  Alon/.o  comes. 

ROSITA. 

Hold!     Ere  we  go,  a  story  I  Ml  relate: 
Rememberest  thou  an  Indian  maiden  youni;. 
Who  the  name  of  Juanita  bore? 

DIEGO. 

Some  remembrance  have  I  of  such  an  one — 
She  was  young  and  beautiful,  was  she  not  ? 

ROSITA. 

Aye,  as  the  mountain  rose! 
DIEGO. 

What  of  her  ? 
ROSITA. 

She  was,  by  blood,  my  sister;  but  in  love 
A  mother!  for  she  nursed  me  with  a  mother's  care,. 
And  oft  have  I  upon  her  bosom  slept. 

DIEGO. 
Let  us  leave  this  place;  I  'm  feeling  ill! 

ROSITA. 

Nay,  wait  till  I  have  done,  and  then  we  '11  go. 
That  Indian  maiden  you  betrayed,  Diego; 
Betrayed  with  lying  words  her  trusting  heart — 
And  then,  with  laughing  scorn,  you  cast  her  off. 
By  her  own  act  she  died  —  but  heaven  is  just ! 

DIEGO. 

What  deadly  spell  is  this  that  now  is  on  me  ? 
I  'm  faint — my  sight  grows  dim— my  burning  blood 
Seems  like  a  liquid  fire.     Quick!  give  me  water! 

ROSITA. 

NO  ( ooling  drop  can  quench  the  burning  fire 
That  now  consumes  thy  black  and  perjured  heart — 
Thou  art  poisoned 7    Within  an  hour  thou  diest! 
No  power  on  earth  can  save  thy  accursed  life. 
Thus  I  *ve  avenged  Juanita's  cruel  wrongs! 


LOSADA.  M7 

DIEGO. 

Mercy!     Mercy!     Holy  Virgin,  save  me! 

ROSITA. 

Aye,  call  for  mercy  on  thy  coward  soul, 
Which  ne'er  has  known  of  aught  but  cruelty. 

Thou, 

Who  trod  upon  a  bleeding  heart  and  laughed — 
Mercy! 

DIEGO. 

Oh,  let  me  to  a  holy  priest  confess, 
Or  my  immortal  soul  is  lost  forever! 

ROSITA. 

No;  die  accursed!  and  may  thy  filthy  soul 
Be  doomed  to  dwell  'mid  fiery,  hissing  serpents, 
Where  crawling  worms  shall  thy  companions  be, 
While  tears  of  blood  shall  blind  thy  burning  eyes! 
Yes,  die  accursed!  and  in  thy  memory  bear 
The  bitterest  curse  an  Indian  maid  can  give. 
[DIEGO  dies.     Exit  ROSITA.] 


SCENE  II. — Another  room  in  DON  ALONZO'S  palace. 
[Enter  DON  ALONZO  and  servant."] 

ALONZO. 

Why  that  frightened  look  ?     Hast  done  my  bidding  ? 
Does  the  wild  mountain  cat  still  show  her  teeth  ? 
Speak !    What  ails  thee,  fool  ? 

SERVANT. 

Honored  sir! 
The  Indian  girl  has  fled,  and 

ALONZO. 

Fled  ?    How,  and  where  ?   The  dove  was  guarded  well! 


148  LOSADA. 

SERVANT. 

The  room  I  entered,  and  found  an  open  door 
I  ne'er  had  marked  before;  and  on  the  floor 
Lay  the  warm  body  of  Diego,  as  though 
But  lately  dead.     But  his  face — oh,  heaven! 
Bore  such  a  look  as  makes  me  shudder  still. 

ALONZO  (aside). 

The  secret  door — of  which 
No  one  knew  save  Diego  and  myself. 

( To  servant. ) 

Marked  thou  any  wound 
Upon  the  body,  or  blood  upon  the  floor  ? 
Or  anything  to  indicate  a  death 
From  other  cause  than  natural  ? 

SERVANT. 

I  marked  no  blood  upon  the  floor, 
But  I  perceived  a  scratch  upon  his  arm, 
As  though  an  angry  cat  had  struck  its  claws 
Into  his  flesh. 

ALONZO  (aside). 

Poisoned/ 

[Enter  PEDRO,  hurriedly.'} 
What  is  it,  Pedro,  that  brings  thee  in  such  haste 
At  this  untimely  hour  ? 

PEDRO. 

The  peons  have  all  to  the  mountains  fled! 
Save  old  Temora,  the  mother  of  Losada. 

A1.0NZO. 

Hast  questioned  her? 

PEDRO. 

Aye,  your  honor. 
ALONZO. 

What  answer  did  she  make? 


LOS  AD  A.  149 

PEDRO. 

None;  save  in  language  of  her  native  tongue, 
Which  seemed  like  bitter  curses. 

ALONZO. 

Hast  lately  marked  among  the  peons  aught 
Of  suspicious  import  ? 

PEDRO. 

For  several  nights  upon  the  mountain  peaks 
I  've  seen  strange  lights,  and  whisperings  have  I  heard 
Among  the  people. 

ALONZO. 

Go  tell  the  Commandant  I  would  see  him — 
And  bring  before  me  old  Temora. 

PEDRO. 
And  if  she  refuse  to  come  ? 

ALONZO. 

Then  bind  her,  hand  and  foot,  and  bring  her  thus— 
I  '11  teach  these  serfs  they  have  a  master! 


ACT    V. 
SCENE  I. — DON  ALONZO'S  palace.     DON  ALONZO  alone, 

[Enter  Commandant  and  servants  with  TEMORA.] 

ALONZO. 
Where,  Temora,  is  thy  son  Losada? 

TEMORA. 

Go  ask  the  mountain  wind! 

ALONZO. 

Where  is  the  Indian  girl  they  call  Rosita  ? 

TEMORA. 

Does  the  savage  wolf  ask  the  bleating  ewe 
Where  is  the  helpless  lamb  he  has  devoured  ? 


ISO  LOS  A  DA. 

ALON/O. 

Dost  thou  know  to  whom  thou  speakest  ? 

TKMORA. 

I  know  thee  well,  and  do  not  fear  thy  power. 

ALONZO. 

If  thou  wouldst  not  feel  my  power,  then  tell  me 
Where  is  the  maiden  and  thy  son  Losada  ? 

TKMORA. 

Son  of  a  thrice  accursed  race, 

Temora  tells  thee  to  thy  face, 

That  she'll  to  darkest  dungeon  go 

Ere  aught  of  them  from  her  thou  'It  know. 

And  more :  in  darkest  dungeon's  gloom, 

Or  in  the  blackest  realms  of  doom, 

Where  dwells  the  vilest,  loathsome  thing — 

Where  demons  howl,  and  vipers  sting, — 

Her  burning  scorn  and  vengeful  hate 

For  thee  and  thine  will  not  abate! 

But,  mark  me,  fool! — I  tell  thee  now, 

With  quivering  lip  and  pallid  brow 

I  '11  see  thee  beg  on  bended  knee 

Thy  base  and  coward  life  of  me. 

For  the  pale  star  of  weeping 

Has  sunk  in  the  West, 
And  the  red  star  of  battle 

Now  flames  in  the  East! 

ALONZO. 
Away  to  prison  with  the  filthy  hag! 

TEMORA. 

Back,  cowards! 

Touch  but  one  hair  of  old  Temora's  head, 
And  ere  to-morrow's  sun  the  starving  wolf 
Will  tear  from  off  your  bones  the  quivering  flesh! 
This  dagger's  point  more  deadly  is  than  viper's  sting 

[Draws  from  her  bosom  a  dagger.] 
Ha!  well  may  ye  all  tremble,  coward  slaves! 


LOS  A  DA.  151 

For  the  red  star  of  battle 

Now  flames  in  the  East! 

[AH fall  back,  cowering  before  TEMORA'S  vengeful  maledic 
tions.     Enter  PEDRO  hastily.] 

PEDRO. 

Don  Alonzo,  we  're  surrounded  by  a  host 
Of  hostile  Indians,  by  Losada  led! 

TEMORA. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 

The  red  star  of  battle 
Now  flames  in  the  East! 


SCENE  II.— LOSADA'S  Camp. 

'[Enter  LOSADA,  ROLO,  and  Indian  warriors.] 

LOSADA. 

Indian  warriors!  now  we  stand 
Like  freemen  on  our  native  land; 
The  tyrant's  rule  of  power  is  o'er, 
The  peon  slave  shall  weep  no  more. 

ROLO. 
We  '11  weep  on  the  mountain  no  more, 

Nor  bend  our  bare  necks  to  the  yoke; 
No  more  in  the  valley  we'll  sigh 

Till  our  hearts  with  sorrow  are  broke! 

The  days  of  our  weeping  are  o'er; 

The  time  of  our  mourning  is  past; 
The  sunlight  of  freedom  has  dawned 

On  our  long-suffering  country  at  last! 
[Enter  ROSITA  dressed  as  a  warrior.] 

ROSITA. 

Now  the  rosy  dawn  is  breaking, 

Now  the  golden  morn  is  waking 

From  her  dewy  couch  to  greet 

The  sun  of  Liberty! 


152  LOS  A  DA. 

CHORUS. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  and  hail  to  the  day 
That  chase  the  gloom  and  darkness  away! 

LOSADA. 
Ah,  Rosita! 

ROSITA. 

Aye,  'tis  Rosita. 

LOSADA. 

How  'scaped  the  dove  the  claws  of  the  vulture? 

ROSITA. 

The  heart  of  the  maiden  was  brave; 
The  point  of  the  dagger  she  gave! 
The  vulture  rots  beneath  the  tree; 
The  mountain  dove  again  is  free! 

CHORUS. 
Hail,  maid  of  the  mountain! 

We  now  give  to  thee 
The  love  of  the  brave 

And  the  smiles  of  the  free! 

ROSITA. 
Our  mother,  Losada  ? 

LOSADA. 

Is  still  at  home,  in  the  banana  grove. 

ROSITA. 

No;  she  's  in  Alonzo's  power,  Losada. 
Disguised,  I  've  watched  him  as  the  sharp-eye'd  lynx 
Watches  its  prey.     I  saw  her  dragged  before  him! 

LOSADA. 

Perdition  seize  him!     I  '11  away  at  once 
To  her  relief. 

ROLO. 

Hold,  Losada!     Alonzo  will  not  harm  her — 
I  will  from  thee  a  message  bear. 


LOS  A  DA.  -153 

LOSADA. 

'Tis  well;  Losada  to  Alonzo  says: 

That  if  aught  of  harm  befall  Temora 

While  in  Alonzo's  power  she  doth  remain, 

Alonzo's  naked  body  shall  be  bound 

And  placed  where  fierce  the  summer  sunbeams  fall, 

And  there  shall  lie,  until  his  rotting  flesh 

Shall  be  devoured  by  filthy,  crawling  worms. 

And,  shouldst  thou  not  within  an  hour  return, 

And  with  thee  bring  the  body  of  Alonzo, 

Before  yon  crescent  moon  has  sunk  behind 

The  western  hills,  to  flame  and  slaughter  red 

Losada  gives  the  proud  Alonzo's  house." 

Go,  and  tell  him  that  thus  Losada  speaks! 

Go,  and  with  thee  take  our  bravest  warriors 

To  enforce  this  order  of  Losada. 

\_Exeunt  in  different  directions  J\ 


SCENE  III.—  ALONZO'S  palace.    TEMORA  before  ALONZO, 
guarded  by  his  servants.     (Same  as  Scene  /.) 

ALONZO. 

Now  speak,  accursed  hag!  and  tell  me  all 
Of  this  uprising  of  thy  peon  race; 
And  where  thy  son  Losada  can  be  found, 
And  where  the  Indian  maid  they  call  Rosita. 
Now  tell  me  this,  or  to  the  rack  thou  goest— 
Say,  wilt  thou  speak  ? — 

TEMORA. 

No!  by  the  fierce  god  of  battle,  no! 

Temora  to  the  rack  will  go, 

Will  pass  through  fire;  on  embers  lie; 

And  like  a  wounded  wolf  will  die, 

Ere  thou,  or  any  of  thy  race, 

From  her  shall  learn  their  dwelling-place. 

But  this  I  Ml  say,  on  bended  knee 

I  '11  see  thee  beg  thy  life  of  me! 


'54  LOSAf).  / 

For  the  red  star  of  battle 

Burns  bright  in  the  East! 
[Enter  servant  of  ALONZO.] 

SERVANT. 

A  gray-haired  harper  at  the  door  awaits, 
And  converse  seeks  to  hold  with  Don  Alonzo! 

ALONZO. 

Bid  him  enter! 
[Exit  servant.     Re-enter  servant  with  ROLO.] 

ALONZO. 

What  with  me  wouldst  thou  have,  old  man  ? 

ROLO. 
I  bring  to  thee  a  message  from  Losacla. 

ALONZO. 

Ah,  from  my  serf  and  peon  slave,  Losada! 
Pray,  what  message  may  the  scoundrel  send  me  ? 

ROLO. 

Losada  to  Alonzo  this  message  sends: 
"  That  if  aught  of  harm  befall  Temora 
While  in  Alonzo's  power  she  doth  remain, 
Alonzo's  naked  body  shall  be  bound 
And  placed  where  fierce  the  summer  sunbeams  fall, 
And  there  shall  lie,  until  his  rotting  flesh 
Shall  be  devoured  by  filthy,  crawling  worms. 
And,  should  Rolo  not  within  an  hour  return. 
And  with  him  bring  the  body  of  Alonzo, 
Before  yon  crescent  moon  has  sunk  behind 
The  western  hills,  to  flame  and  slaughter  red 
Losada  gives  the  proud  Alonzo's  house!" 
Thus  did  Losada  speak. 

ALONZO  (to  servants}. 

Seize  the  drivelling  dotard  and  bind  him  fast! 
{ALONZO'S  servants  attempt  to  arrest  ROLO,  who  blows  a 
whistle,  when   several   Indian  warriors   rush    in   armed 
with  mechetes  (long  knives],  overpower  ALONZO'S  ser 
vants,  and  seize  ALON/O.] 


LOS  A  DA. 

ROLO. 

Come!  or,  like  a  felon  bound,  I  '11  take  thee! 

For  by  Losada  shalt  thou  now  be  judged. 

Nay,  struggle  not— these  Indian  knives  are  sharp; 

One  word  from  me  will  end  thy  tyrant  life. 

Come!  for  the  storm  of  vengeance  soon  will  break! 

Come!  and  from  Losada  beg  protection! 

TEMORA. 

I  told  thee,  tyrant,  I  would  see 
Thee  beg  thy  coward  life  of  me! 
[  Exeunt.  ] 


SCENE  IV. — Camp  of  LOSADA. 

\_Enter  LOSADA,  Indian  warriors,  and  PRIEST.] 

LOSADA. 

Friends,  we  await  the  coming  of  Alonzo — 
The  message  sent  by  Rolo  him  will  bring. 
Speak  now,  and  say  what  his  award  shall  be! 
For  proud  Alonzo  now  is  in  our  power. 

CHORUS. 

The  long  night  has  passed; 

The  morn  comes  again 
To  shed  its  soft  light 

On  mountain  and  plain — 
Then  let  Alonzo  go, 

And  leave  his  palace  grand, 
And  never  more  return 

To  our  wild  mountain  land! 

LOSADA. 

T'  is  well;  but  see,  Alonzo  comes! 
'[Enter  ROLO,  TEMORA,  and.  ALONZO,  guarded  by  warriors.'} 

LOSADA. 

What  says  Alonzo  now  ?    The  Indian  chief 
Is  master  here,  and  now  thy  doom  can  fix. 


156  LOS  A  DA. 

What  thinks  he  now  his  doom  should  be, 
A    an  atonement  for  the  wrongs  he  's  done 
To  the  oppressed  and  downtrod  Indian  race  ? 

ALONZO. 

I  know  that  I  'm  in  Losada's  power, 
Hut  I  'm  of  the  hidalgos'  noble  blood 
And  cannot  beg;  therefore  let  Losada 
Do  his  will. 

LOSADA. 

Losada  long  has  been  Alonzo's  slave, 

And  knows  him  well;  has  often  felt  his  power, 

And  bitter  curses  oft  has  breathed  against  him. 

Losada  ne'er  forgets  a  wrong,  nor  ever  yet 

Forgot  an  act  of  kindness;  he  remembers  well 

That  once  Alonzo  interposed  his  power 

To  save  Losada  from  most  cruel  torture; 

Aye,  from  the  bitter  lash!     Losada  ne'er  forgets 

A  kindness  done. 

(To  TEMORA.) 

Speak,  mother,  and  tell  me  now 
What  shall  the  sentence  of  Alonxo  be  ? 

TEMORA. 

Rosita  is  safe!  Diego  is  dead! 
My  anger  appeased  with  the  blood  that  is  shed; 
The  red  star  of  battle  has  sunk  in  the  West, 
The  bright  star  of  peace  now  shines  in  the  East; 
The  vulture  has  fled  to  the  mountains  away! 
The  eagle  no  longer  awaits  for  its  prey! 

Let  Alonzo  go  towards  the  rising  sun, 
And  ne'er  return  to  Aztlan's  mountain  land. 

LOSADA. 

'Tis  well; 
Now  let  the  proud  Alonzo  go 

And  seek  in  other  lands, 
A  home  he  never  more  can  find 
Where  now  his  palace  stands. 

[Enter  ROSITA.] 


LOS  A  DA.  157 

ROSITA. 

And  when  again,  by  force  or  guile, 

He  seeks  an  Indian  maid, 
Let  him  beware  the  vengeful  hand 

That -holds  the  dagger's  blade! 

[Exit  ALONZO.] 

ROLO. 
Now  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
The  son  of  Tlascala, 

Our  savior,  has  come! 
No  more  shall  we  wait, 

No  more  shall  we  dream, 
And  sigh  for  his  coming 

By  mountain  and  stream — 
The  sunlight  of  peace 

Now  shines  in  the  East, 
The  cloud  and  the  storm 

Have  sunk  in  the  West. 

PRIEST. 
O  Thou  who  rul'st  the  raging  storm, 

And  bidst  the  howling  tempest  cease, 
We  thank  Thee  for  the  rising  sun 

That  brings  the  gentle  beams  of  peace! 

CHORUS. 
We  '11  light  the  teocali 

And  sound  the  loud  drum! 
The  son  of  Tlascala, 

Our  savior,  has  come! 
Rejoice,  ye  loud  storms 

That  roar  in  the  East! 
Rejoice,  ye  wild  winds 

That  sing  in  the  West! 
The  temples  of  Tixtlan 

Again  shall  we  light! 
The  altars  of  Aztlan 

Again  shall  be  bright! 


I.  OS  A  DA. 

So  rejoice,  ye  wild  winds 
That  sing  in  the  West! 
And  rejoice,  ye  loud  storms 

That  roar  in  the  East! 
The-  temples  of  Tixtlan 
Again  shall  we  light! 
The  altars  of  Aztlan 

Again  shall  be  bright! 
[E.i-  cunt  all  except  LOSADA  and  ROSITA.] 

LOSADA. 

Now,  Rosita,  we  will  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 

We  will  go,  we  will  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows! 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose; 

We  will  go,  we  will  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows! 

ROSITA. 

Yes,  Losada,  we  will  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 
Where  the  wild  flowers  sweetly  bloom, 
And  the  crystal  streamlet  flows; 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 

We  will  go,  we  will  go 
Where  the  crystal  streamlet  flows, 
And  the  wild  banana  grows! 

BOTH  (retiring  from  the  stage). 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go 
Where  the  wild  banana  grows; 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 

Let  us  go,  let  us  go 
While  the  morning  breeze  is  fresh, 
And  the  dew  is  on  the  rose! 


Tucson,  An/(,n;i,   1879. 


MAN'S     HERITAGE    OF    FREEDOM. 


DELIVKRKD  BY  MR.  JOHN  MCCULLOUGH  AT  THE  CALIFORNIA  THEATRE, 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  JULY  4,  1869. 

BRIGHT  inspiration  on  my  spirit  fell — 

And  by  its  beaming  light, 

I  glanced  adown  the  misty  past 

O'er  which  eternal  ages  sweep; 
I  saw  the  curtaining  clouds  of  gloom 

Which  hung  o'er  Nature's  primal  sleep; 

I  heard  the  earthquake's  rumbling  tread; 

I  heard  the  thunder's  voice  of  ire; 
And  saw  the  brow  of  night  grow  pale 

Beneath  the  lightning's  baleful  fire. 

Anon,  I  heard  a  silvery  voice 

Ring  sweetly  through  the  realms  of  night; 

It  bade  the  sound  of  discord  cease 
Before  the  coming  beams  of  light! 

I  saw  the  rosy  hues  of  morn 
Dawn  softly  o'er  the  new-born  earth; 

I  heard  the  stars  of  morning  sing 

Sweet  anthems  o'er  the  beauteous  birth. 

Then,  lo!  Creative  Wisdom  spake, 
And  order  fixed  where  chaos  was; 

It  bade  the  warring  spirits  yield 
To  Nature's  deep,  harmonious  laws. 

Long  ages  past— to  measure  which 
Is  far  beyond  the  loftiest  thought; 

And  still  fair  Wisdom's  ends  divine 
The  secret  laws  of  Nature  wrought. 


i6o        MAN'S  HERITAGE   OF  FKI-.EIWM. 

They  dug  the  silent  ocean  caves, 
And  fixed  the  everlasting  rock; 

Earth's  dark  and  deep  foundations  laid, 
Which  mock  the  earthquake's  rending  shock! 

As  o'er  the  earth  the  ages  rolled, 
Bright  verdure  on  her  bosom  grew; 

The  leafy  poplar  kissed  the  breeze, 
The  rosebud  drank  the  morning  dew! 

Again,  Creative  Wisdom  spake — 

And  thus,  the  mighty  fiat  ran: 
"  Now  let  the  noblest  work  be  made, 
And  let  that  crowning  work  be  Man! 

"  Give  him  bright  Reason  for  his  guide! 

Let  him  be  ever  proud  and  free! 

Make  him  the  lord  of  all  the  earth, 

And  monarch  of  the  rolling  sea! 

"  Then  let  him  take  his  heritage, 

The  heritage  that  makes  him  free! 
And  let  him,  like  the  eagle  proud, 
Exult  ui  glorious  liberty1 

"  Let  him  command  the  raging  storm, 
And  clip  the  lightning's  fiery  wing; 
And  force  the  earth  and  bid  the  sea 
To  him  their  richest  treasures  bring." 

The  Voice  Creative  ceased— when  lo! 

I  saw  a  goddess  fair  and  bright 
Descending  from  a  radiant  sphere 

Robed  in  the  rosiest  beams  of  light. 

I  knew  her  by  her  shining  helm, 
And  by  the  glance  that  beamed  on  me; 

And  by  her  burnished  shield,  I  knew 
The  guardian  fair  of  Liberty! 

Historic  ages  rolled  along, 
Unfolding  man's  progressive  life; 


MAN'S   HERITAGE    OF   FREEDOM.        161 

Portraying  many  a  scene  of  love, 
And  many  a  bloody  field  of  strife. 

But  still  I  saw  bright  Freedom  stand 

All  radiant  in  her  glorious  might; 
Resisting  still  aggressive  wrong, 

And  battling  in  the  cause  of  right. 

I  heard  the  deep  and  mournful  wail 

That  floated  o'er  the  Grecian  sea 
When  Spartan  heroes  vainly  fought 

And  died  at  old  Thermopylae. 

I  heard  the  bitter  curse  she  gave 

The  banner  that  the  legions  bore 
When  Roman  despots  ruled  the  world 

And  drenched  the  earth  with  human  gore. 

I  saw  her  draw  the  shining  blade — 
Bid  Brutus  strike  the  avenging  blow 

That  checked  Ambition's  vaulting  pride 
And  laid  the  Imperial  Caesar  low. 

On  old  Palmyra's  marble  waste, 

Sad,  bitter  tears  I  saw  her  shed 
O'er  many  a  broken  column  there, 

Which  told  of  ancient  glories  fled. 

I  saw  her  weep  by  Plato's  tomb, 
And  Virgil's  grave,  and  where  the  breeze 

Soft  music  made  around  the  spot 
Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  Socrates. 

Beneath  Corruption's  withering  breath 
Bright  Freedom's  empire  passed  away; 

And  where  she  once  in  glory  stood, 
Her  temples  all  in  ruin  lay. 

Aye!  the  classic  ages  passed  away — 
The  rude,  untutored  Northmen  came; 

And  Grecian  grace  and  Roman  pride 
Were  given  to  the  sword  and  flame. 


162        AfAN'S   }{ERITAGE   OF  FREEDOM. 

The  laurel-tree  all  lonely  stands, 
The  drooping  \villmvs  sadly  weep, 

And  crumbling  ruins  mark  the  spot 
Where  Freedom's  classic  glories  sleep! 

But  still  a  deathless  fame  is  left, 
And  on  the  bright,  historic  page, 

Are  writ  in  characters  of  light 
Stern  lessons  to  a  future  age. 

Mediaeval  ages  came  and  passed, 
And  Freedom  sought  another  land! 

A  beauteous  land,  whose  virgin  breast 
Had  ne'er  been  touched  by  tyrant's  hand. 

I  saw  her  on  the  granite  hills; 

I  saw  her  by  wide-rolling  floods; 
I  saw  her  on  the  sunny  plains, 

And  in  the  dark,  majestic  woods. 

Wide,  wide  she  roamed  the  smiling  land, 
From  northern  mountains  clad  with  snow 

To  where  the  sunny  skies  are  bright 
And  soft  the  southern  breezes  blow. 

From  where  New  England's  pine-clad  hills 
Fling  back  the  sound  of  ocean's  roar 

To  where  the  western  billows  roll 
And  break  upon  a  golden  shore. 

I  marked  her  beaming  eye  of  pride; 

The  smile  upon  her  lips  that  played; 
I  saw  her  bosom  swell  with  hope 

As  she  this  beauteous  land  surveyed. 

What  heard  she  then?     Right  well,  I  ween, 
She  heard  the  tread  of  coming  feet, 

And  with  prophetic  vision  bright 
She  saw  the  bannered  millions  meet. 

She  looked  along  the  path  of  Time, 
And  saw  her  banners  kiss  the  breeze; 


MAN'S  HERITAGE   OF  FREEDOM.        163 

She  saw  them  spread  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
And  floating  o'er  the  rolling  seas. 

She  saw  in  this  wide-spreading  land 
A  dwelling  for  the  proud  and  free; 

Where  all  her  sons  might  find  repose 
Beneath  the  stars  of  Liberty! 

Still  onward  rolled  the  circling  years — 
The  wing  of  Time  sped  onward  still; 

And  in  progressive  changes  wrought, 
Bright  Freedom  saw  her  hopes  fulfil. 

She  saw  great  cities  proudly  stand 
Where  once  the  wild  beast  made  his  den; 

On  what  was  once  a  desert  spot, 
She  heard  the  echoing  tread  of  men. 

She  saw  wide  fields  of  waving  corn 
Where  once  primeval  forests  stood; 

She  saw  rich  Commerce  spread  her  wings 
Far  o'er  the  ocean's  rolling  flood. 

She  saw  the  forked  lightning  made 
Subservient  to  man's  towering  mind, 

And,  at  his  bidding,  do  his  will 
With  speed  that  leaves  the  light  behind. 

And  now,  to-day,  with  beaming  eye 
She  glances  o'er  her  empire  wide, 

Whose  bounds  are  by  the  Arctic  snows 
And  by  the  equatorial  tide. 

Then,  let  her  sons,  with  one  accord, 
Now  swear  to  guard  that  empire  well; 

Remembering  how  in  bygone  days 
The  pride  of  ancient  nations  fell. 

San  Francisco,  July  2,  1869. 


THE  WANDERING   GHOST  OF  A  MISER. 


"  Doomed,  for  a  cettatn  /,->///,  t<>  walk  the  night ; 
And,  for  the  day,  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 
Are  burnt  and  purged  away"  —  "  HAMLKT." 

BY  the  silent  shore  of  a  river  dark, 

Sat  a  boatman  old  in  a  wizard  bark — 

A  ferryman  he  was,  whose  skiff  carried  o'er 

Those  who  journeyed  to  the  farther  shore. 

A  lone  traveller  came,  aweary  and  old, 
And  bearing  what  seemed  a  burden  of  gold- 
His  voice  the  sleeping  echoes  woke, 
As  to  the  boatman  thus  he  spoke  : 

"Haste,  boatman,  haste!  your  skiff  unmoor, 

And  bear  me  o'er  the  tide, 

That  I  before  the  darkness  fall, 

May  reach  the  other  side." 

Then  sternly  spake  the  boatman  old, 
And  said  :  "  I  first  would  know 

What  is  the  burden  that  you  bear, 
That  makes  you  stoop  so  low  ?  " 

"  'Tis  red,  red  gold!  "  the  traveller  said, 
"And  gems  and  jewels  rare, 
Which  I  have  gained  by  weary  toil, 
Through  many  a  weary  year." 

"  I  cannot  row  you  o'er  the  wave 
With  this,  your  golden  store; 
For  ingot  never  yet  was  borne 
Unto  the  other  shore. 

"  But  leave  your  gold,  and  bring  with  you 
Whatever  you  have  won 


THE  WANDERING  GHOST  OF  A  MISER.  165 

As  a  reward  from  Charity, 
For  deeds  of  kindness  done." 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  precious  gold! 

'Tis  all  that  I  have  won! 
For  Charity  I  've  never  known, 
Nor  deeds  of  kindness  done." 

"  Then  you  can  't  cross  this  mystic  stream, 

Nor  reach  the  other  strand; 
For  nought  but  gentle  memories  live 
In  that  bright,  beauteous  land. 

"  So  take  your  gold,  and  get  you  gone! 

Exchange  it,  if  you  can, 
For  memory  of  some  good  you  've  done 
To  some  poor  fellow-man. 

"  And  then  return,  and  with  such  freight 

I  '11  safely  bear  you  o'er, 
And  you  may  have  a  pleasant  time 
Upon  the  other  shore." 

The  boat  disappeared — the  boatman  was  gone — 
Alone  on  the  shore  stood  the  dark  doomed  one; 
His  cheek  it  was  pale  and  haggard  with  fear, 
For  the  words  of  the  wizard  still  rung  in  his  ear. 

Then  dark  were  the  clouds  that  gathered  in  gloom, 
And  hot  were  the  hissings  that  whispered  of  doom, 
And  fierce  were  the  lightnings  that  flashed  o'er  his  head, 
And  bitter  the  tears  of  remorse  that  he  shed. 

But  ere  he  was  lost  in  the  gloom  of  despair, 
The  loud  thunders  ceased — an  angel  was  there 
With  a  bright,  shining  face,  who  pointed  on  high 
To  a  soft-beaming  star  in  the  desolate  sky! 

The  angel's  voice  was  sweet;  the  while 
Upon  his  lips  there  played  a  smile, 
As  on  the  sad  one's  drooping  head 
He  laid  a  gentle  hand,  and  said  : 


166   THE  WANDERING  GHOST  OF  A  MISKK. 

"  I  cannot  bid  you  not  to  sigh 
O'er  wh.it  is  past  and  now  gone  by; 
If  I  could  bid  your  memory  sleep, 
Then  might  I  bid  you  not  to  weep. 

"  But  I  may  bid  you  not  despair, 
(Though  you  've  a  heavy  lot  to  bear)— 
Yet  still,  at  long  and  bitter  cost, 
You  may  regain  what  you  have  lost. 

"  If  summer  harvest  man  would  reap, 
Strict  watch  in  springtime  he  must  keep; 
And  he  who  looks  for  autumn  corn 
Must  not  neglect  the  summer  morn! 

"  Kind  Nature  ever  shows  a  cause 
For  her  benign  and  beauteous  laws; 
And  if  infracted  they  should  be, 
Nought  can  avert  the  penalty. 

<(  Come  listen  now,  with  patient  ear, 

While  I  your  life  recount; 
And  at  the  Bar  of  Conscience,  you 
Shall  now  alone  account : 

"  You  've  passed  a  long,  laborious  life, 

A  life  of  toil  and  care, 
But  ne'er  have  dried  the  orphan's  tear, 
Nor  heard  the  widow's  prayer. 

"  You  've  toiled  for  gold  and  nought  beside  ; 

You  've  wrought  for  self  alone — 
For  generous  thoughts  you  've  never  felt, 
Nor  gentle  mercies  shown. 

"  You  've  wrought  for  gold,  and  gold  have  won; 

For  all  your  toil  so  hard, 
These  glittering  gems  and  golden  dust 
Are  now  your  sole  reward! 

"So,  then,  pass  judgment  on  yourself— 
And  say,  MS  sure  you  must), 


THE  WANDERING  GHOST  OF  A  MISER,  167 

If  now  this  heavy  lot  you  bear 
Is  not  most  strictly  just! 

"  But  go,  and  with  an  honest  heart 

Your  erring  steps  retrace; 
Drive  Avarice  from  your  heart,  and  give 
Sweet  Charity  a  place. 

"  'T  is  hard,  I  know,  in  hoary  age 

To  learn  the  task  of  youth, 
And  long  it  may  be  ere  you  find 
The  pleasant  paths  of  Truth  : 

"  But  help,  there's  none !  for,  by  the  law, 

You  must  yourself  redeem, 

By  penance  such  as  in  your  eyes 

May  meet  with  justice  seem. 

' '  And,  when  your  conscience  to  yourself 

Has  absolution  given, 
Return — and  you  will  surely  find 
An  easy  way  to  heaven!  " 

The  angel  ceased  speaking — his  mission  was  done; 
Alone  on  the  shore  stood  the  dark,  doomed  one; 
His  cheek  it  was  pale,  but  the  tear  in  his  eye 
Told  not  of  the  "  worm  that  never  shall  die." 

The  gloom  of  despair  had  passed  from  his  brow — 
The  sunlight  of  hope  lay  soft  on  it  now; 
Though  he  sighed  with  regret  o'er  what  he  had  lost, 
He  bowed  to  his  fate,  fdr  he  felt  it  was  just. 

A  weary  lot  that  lone  one  had, 

A  weary  lot,  I  ween, 
To  travel  back  with  with  self-reproach 

To  many  an  earthly  scene: 

When  the  red  meteor  gleamed, 
And  the  polar  light  streamed, 
The  swain  to  his  cottage  returning 


168   THE  WAND1-R1\C,   (; HOST  OF  A  MIS  I  A' 

Belated  at  night, 
Oft  saw  a  pale  light 
In  the  churchyard  dimly  burning; 

And  heard  a  deep  sigh, 

As  the  blast  swept  by, 
When  the  wehr-wolf  abroad  was  prowling, 

And  a  low,  sad  wail 

On  the  wild,  shrieking  gale, 
When  the  winds  of  autumn  were  howling. 

And  in  the  lone  dell, 

(As  old  gossips  tell), 
The  shepherd,  as  his  watch  he  was  keeping, 

Oft  heard  all  around 

A  deep,  sobbing  sound, 
As  of  some  one  bitterly  weeping. 

And  amid  ruins  old, 

All  covered  with  mould, 
Where  the  owl  in  the  ivy  was  hiding, 

In  the  moonbeams  bright 

A  form  clothed  in  white 
Was  often  seen  silently  gliding. 

And  in  the  grim  night, 

When  no  stars  were  in  sight, 
And  the  blast  was  fitful  and  gusty, 

And  shutters  that  hung 

Creaked  loud  as  they  swung 
On  hinges  that  were  broken  and  rusty, — 

The  watcher  who  kept 

A  vigil  where  slept 
Some  one  that  was  wasting  and  dying, 

Turned  pale  at  the  sight 

Of  a  soft-beaming  light 
By  the  bed  where  the  sick  one  was  lying. 

'T  was  that  spirit,  I  ween, 
That  so  often  was  seen 
When  sadly  the  night  winds  were  moaning, 


THE  WANDERING  GHOST  OF  A  MISER.  169 

That  with  tears  in  its  eyes, 
And  with  deep,  broken  sighs, 
For  the  sins  of  earth  was  atoning. 

But— 

All  things  to  time  must  break  or  bend; 
The  longest  day  will  have  an  end; 
And  heaviest  debts  at  last  are  paid 
By  compensation  fully  made. 

So- 

When  summers  long  had  come  and  gone, 
And  many  circling  years  had  run, 
No  more  in  dell  and  haunted  glen 
That  wandering  ghost  was  seen  again. 

For— 
It  had  paid  its  last  debt; 

It  had  crossed  o'er  the  river; 
It  had  squared  all  accounts — 

It  was  at  rest,  and  forever. 

San  Francisco,  1870. 


UJUVERSITT 


LAMENT  OF  THE  GUARDIAN  OF  EARTH. 


I  SAW  in  my  dreams  the  Guardian  of  Earth 
The  genius  that  cradled  the  orb  at  its  birth; 
Her  voice  in  lament  through  the  bright  ether  rung, 
And  this  was  the  song  that  sadly  she  sung: 

"  Ye  offspring  of  Earth!    Ye  children  of  Time! 
Oh,  why  will  ye  tread  the  pathways  of  crime? 
Oh,  why  will  ye  turn  from  the  fountains  of  Light 
To  grope  in  the  gloom  and  darkness  of  Night  ? 

"  I've  clothed  the  green  Earth  with  plant  and  with  tree; 
I  've  hung  the  blue  arch  o'er  the  wide-rolling  sea; 
I  've  sown  the  broad  fields,  I  've  planted  the  vine, 
And  filled  the  fresh  fountains  with  milk  and  with  wine. 

"  The  breath  of  the  Morn,  I  bid  it  to  fan 
The  bosom  of  Earth  for  the  comfort  of  man; 
The  lightning  and  storm,  I  bid  them  to  sweep 
The  dark,  reeking  corners  where  foul  vapors  sleep. 

44  I  bid  the  soft  light  of  the  sunbeam  to  play 
On  the  brow  of  the  Morn,  at  the  birth  of  the  Day; 
And  I  hang  the  curtains  of  eve  at  its  close, 
Around  the  soft  couch  of  Nature's  repose. 

44  I  bid  the  bright  months  as  they  circle  to  bring 
The  summer,  the  autumn,  and  the  sweet,  sunny  spring; 
And  in  winter  I  bid  tired  Nature  to  rest 
And  spread  a  white  mantle  of  snow  o'er  her  breast. 

41  From  the  soft,  rolling  mist,  I  gather  the  shower 
To  gladden  the  fields  and  freshen  the  flower; 
And  on  the  high  mountain  I  garner  the  snow 
To  feed  the  bright  streams  in  summer  that  flow. 

44  But,  alas!  these  scenes  where  music  is  heard, 
In  the  voice  of  the  breeze  and  the  song  of  the  bird, 


LAMENT  OF  THE  GUARDIAN  OF  EARTH.  171 

Are  marred  by  the  discords  that  fall  on  my  ear 
From  the  voices  of  woe  and  cries  of  despair. 

"  The  sweet  voice  of  Nature  is  drowned  by  the  din 
And  discords  that  howl  through  the  caverns  of  sin; 
Her  garments  of  beauty,  all  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Are  stained  by  the  filth  and  foulness  of  lust. 

"  The  battle's  wild  storm  and  the  cannon's  hot  breath 
Sweep  the  bosom  of  Earth  with  the  tempest  of  death; 
The  field  and  the  meadow  with  carnage  are  red, 
And  the  breeze  is  foul  with  the  stench  of  the  dead. 

"  The  lordly  are  revelling — the  helpless  are  dying — 
The  widow  is  wailing — the  orphan  is  crying — 
And  on  the  scarred  Earth  the  demon  of  Wrath 
Leaves  the  blackness  of  ruin  on  his  desolate  path. 

•"  The  sun  shines  on  meadow,  on  mountain  and  plain; 
The  Earth  yields  its  treasures  of  fruit  and  of  grain; 
There  's  plenty  for  all,  their  wants  to  supply, 
So  that  none  need  perish  with  hunger,  and  die. 

4<  But  alas!  for  the  greed  and  the  grasping  of  man — 
Though  his  brief  mortal  life  but  measures  a  span, 
He  spends  it  in  gathering  the  dust  of  the  earth, 
Nor  cares  for  the  things  that  only  have  worth. 

"  And  alas  for  the  Earth!  and  alas  for  to-day! 
That  the  simple  old  times  have  now  passed  away; 
The  mountains  are  rent  asunder  and  torn, 
And  the  hills  and  valleys  of  beauty  are  shorn. 

41  By  the  clear,  silver  stream  in  the  meadow  so  green, 
The  merry-voiced  mower  no  longer  is  seen; 
A  wild,  piercing  scream  has  frightened  the  bird, 
And  the  song  of  the  reaper  no  longer  is  heard. 

44  The  deer  is  startled  in  the  wild  mountain  glen 
By  the  shock  of  the  blast  and  the  yelling  of  men, 
Who  scourge  the  green  Earth  in  search  of  the  gold 
For  which  they  their  souls  to  Mammon  have  sold. 


2   LAMENT  OF  THE  GUARDIAN  OF  EARTH. 

"  So,  I  weep  o'er  the  Earth,  as  I  think  of  the  day 
Ere  the  simple  old  times  had  all  passed  away; 
When  the  fields  they  were  sown,  and  tilled  was  the  soil 
By  the  strength  and  the  skill  of  the  laborer's  toil. 

"  Let  the  one  who  holds  in  the  grasp  of  his  hand 
The  wealth  of  the  mountain,  and  fruit  of  the  land. 
Remember, — that  in  some  future  he  must 
Give  strictly,  and  fully,  an  account  of  his  trust! 

"  When  the  children  of  Earth  from  their  idols  shall  turn, 
From  the  pure  fount  of  Truth  bright  wisdom  shall  learn — 
Shall  quench  in  their  souls  the  fierce  flaming  fire 
That  lights  the  hot  furnace  of  selfish  desire, — 

"  No  longer  shall  then  the  pages  of  Time 
Be  darkened  by  pictures  and  records  of  crime; 
The  wild  storms  that  rend  Earth's  bosom  will  cease — 
And  her  face  will  grow  bright  in  the  sunshine  of  peace. 

"  Then,  children  of  Earth!  Ye  offspring  of  Time! 
Oh,  why  will  ye  tread  the  pathways  of  crime  ? 
And  why  will  ye  turn  from  the  fountains  of  Light 
To  grope  in  the  gloom  and  darkness  of  Night  ?" 

San  Francisco,  1888. 


THE    GATE    OF    JUSTICE. 


I  HAD  a  vision  strange  of  late, 
While  dreaming  of  man's  future  state. 
A  gate  I  saw,  a  portal  grand 
That  opened  to  a  beauteous  land, 
Where  trees  of  fadeless  verdure  grew 
And  flowers  bloomed  of  every  hue. 
The  gate  was  crystal,  and  it  swung 
On  Orient  pearl,  to  which  it  hung. 

A  highway  to  that  portal  led, 

O'er  which  all  sons  of  earth  must  tread 

Who  through  the  mortal  vales  have  passed 

And  reached  a  place  where  they  at  last 

Must  learn  what  is  their  future  fate 

Ere  they  can  pass  that  crystal  gate. 

And  at  that  gate  a  spirit  stood — 
Of  stately  form  and  stern  of  mood ; 
His  brow  was  cold,  and  bright  his  eyes 
As  stars  upon  the  midnight  skies. 
And,  by  the  shining,  magic  wand 
He  held  in  his  unwavering  hand, 
I  knew  that  being  stern  to  be 
The  spirit  just  of  Equity. 

I  watched  the  travellers  as  they  came, 
Of  every  kindred,  tongue,  and  name, 
Who  'd  crossed  the  Stygian  waters  o'er 
And  sought  the  bright  Elysian  shore. 

First,  one  of  haughty  bearing  came, 
Who  bore  on  earth  a  kingly  name. 
A  crown  upon  his  brow  he  wore 
And  in  his  hand  a  sceptre  bore. 
A  prince  he  was,  who  ruled  a  land 
With  cruel  heart  and  tyrant  hand; 


i;4  '/'///:     GATE    OF    JUSTICE. 

Whose  wars  had  strewn  the  earth  with  bones 
And  filled  the  land  with  human  groans; 
Who  now,  with  garments  stained  with  blood. 
Before  stern  Justice  trembling  stood. 

Whrn  lustier  markrd  the  golden  crown, 
He  raised  his  wand,  and  with  a  frown, 
He  smote  a  magic-sounding  shell, 
Which  gave  a  deep,  discordant  knell. 
When,  mingled  with  the  accents  low, 
Was  heard  the  wailing  voice  of  woe. 

Then  paled  the  prince's  brow  with  fear, 
As  fell  upon  his  listening  ear 
The  murdered  soldier's  dying  groan, 
The  lonely  widow's  wailing  moan, 
The  ruined  maid's  despairing  sigh, 
The  little  orphan's  helpless  cry, 
Who  'd  groaned  their  earthly  lives  away 
To  make  for  him  a  holiday. 

Then,  as  by  magic,  all  around 
Uprose  pale  spectres  from  the  ground, 
Who  all  with  hissing  voices  cried: 
"  Behold  thy  victims  at  thy  side, 
With  burning  scorn  and  purpose  fell, 
To  give  thee  now  a  taste  of  hell! 
To  show  thee  what  thy  soul  has  lost, 
And  teach  thee  what  thy  crimes  have  cost; 
Till  thou  shalt  curse  the  fatal  hour 
That  gave  to  thee  thine  earthly  power. 
For  every  drop  for  thee  we've  bled, 
A  burning  tear  thyself  shalt  shed, 
And  thus  thy  crimes  shalt  expiate, 
Ere  thou  canst  pass  this  crystal  gate." 

Then  Justice  spake,  and  sternly  said: 
"  Accept  the  doom  thyself  hast  made! 
Till  these  pale  phantoms  set  thee  free, 
Sweet  Mercy  ne'er  can  plead  for  thee. 
No  being  lives  who  has  the  power 


THE     GATE    OF  JUSTICE.  175 

To  give  thee  respite  for  an  hour, 
Till  thou  hast  compensation  made, 
And  all  thy  moral  debts  hast  paid 
By  penance  such,  as  to  thee  must 
By  highest  law  seem  strictly  just. 

Now  go!  and  mid  the  realms  of  gloom, 
Accept  what  thou  hast  made  thy  doom." 

Then  dropped  the  crown  from  off  his  brow — 
And  like  a  wretched  culprit  now, 
With  trembling  limbs  and  cowering  head, 
He  with  the  mocking  spectres  fled. 

Then  next  came  one  of  princely  wealth — 

A  miser  old  he  'd  been; 
Had  gathered  stores  of  yellow  gold 

And  lived  a  life  of  sin. 

But  ne'er  had  caused  a  flower  to  bloom 

On  any  earthly  soil; 
Ne'er  dried  the  tear  on  sorrow's  cheek 

Nor  soothed  the  lot  of  toil. 

But  ever  had  with  cruel  hand 

Oppressed  the  helpless  poor, 
And  oft  the  suffering  sons  of  want 

Had  driven  from  his  door. 

With  cowering  form  and  blanched  cheek 

He  stood  before  the  gate, 
And  like  a  trembling,  scourged  hound, 

His  sentence  did  await. 

Again  stern  Justice  smote  the  shell, 

When  showers  of  molten  gold 
And  burning  gems  and  jewels  fell 

Upon  the  miser  old. 

Go  back  to  earth!"  the  spirit  cried; 
"  Undo  what  thou  hast  done; 
Go!  and  distribute  now  thy  gold 
By  thee  unjustly  won. 


176  THE    GATE    OF  JUSTICE. 

"  Till  then,  each  glittering,  golden  coin 

A  burning  disk  shall  be 
To  scorch  thy  sordid  soul  until 
From  avarice  it  is  free!" 

The  miser  fled  in  wild  dismay, 
Far  from  the  realms  of  light; 

And  sought  to  hide  his  sordid  head 
Amid  the  glooms  of  night. 


The  next  one  that  came 

Bore  a  saintly  name — 
A  self-righteous  man  was  he — 

And  he  looked  as  he  thought, 

That  surely  he  ought 
The  Lord  at  once  to  see. 

He  thought  not  to  wait 

At  the  crystal  gate, 
Like  other  men  of  sin; 

But  surely  that  he 

Invited  would  be 
To  step  at  once  within. 

But  the  charm  was  broke, 

When  he  heard  the  stroke 
Of  the  wand  that  Justice  held; 

And  saw  on  the  gate 

What  then  was  his  fate, 
In  burning  letters  spelled: 

"  As  ye  sow,  so  ye  reap! 

Then  go  back  and  weep 
O'er  the  wrongs  on  earth  you  have  done; 

Go! — pull  up  the  weeds 

That  sprang  from  the  seeds 
Which,  while  on  earth,  you  have  sown." 

Then  hung  he  his  head, 
And  straightway  he  fled— 
To  where,  I  never  can  tell; 


THE     GATE    OF  JUSTICE.  177 

But  where'er  he  was  bound, 
I  know  that  he  found 
What  for  him  was  surely  a  hell! 

Another  then  came,  with  a  tripping  step 

And  an  eye  that  danced  with  glee, 
Who  showed  by  his  gait  and  his  laughing  brow 

That  a  merry  soul  was  he. 

He  looked  not  abashed,  as  frankly  he  said: 
"  I  fear  I  may  have  done  wrong — 
For  well  have  I  loved  the  wild,  merry  dance, 
And  I  've  loved  sweet  music  and  song! 

"  But  ne'er  have  I  crushed  the  bright-blooming  flower, 

Nor  words  of  harshness  have  spoken 
To  poor  erring  ones  or  children  of  grief 
Whose  hearts  with  sorrow  were  broken; 

"  But  ever  have  tried  to  bind  up  the  wounds 

That  the  spear  of  anguish  has  made; 
And  I  've  loved  to  lighten  the  burdens  of  grief 
On  the  backs  of  the  sorrowing  laid." 

The  face  of  Justice  beamed  with  smiles, 

As  thus  he  kindly  spake: 

'  Thou  didst,  by  living  merrily, 

No  laws  of  Nature  break: 

"  The  flowers  in  springtime  love  to  bloom, 

And  summer  birds  to  sing; 
And  Nature  bids  her  children  all 
To  her  bright  offerings  bring! 

'  Then  why  should  man  insult  her  laws, 

By  teaching  that  'tis  crime 

To  be  as  bright  and  cheerful  as 

The  birds  in  summer  time  ? 

"  So  pass  within  the  crystal  gate 

With  all  thy  merry  glee, 
And  there,  with  many  joyous  friends, 
Still  happy  shalt  thou  be!" 


178  THE    GATE    OF  JUSTICE. 

With  a  bounding  step  and  a  merry  glance, 

He  lightly  tripped  within; 
And  I've  cause  to  believe  a  good  time  he  had 

Though  a  jolly  soul  he  'd  been. 

And  then  came  one  of  humble  mien, 
Who,  while  on  earth,  had  sorrow  seen; 
Whose  heart  had  oft  with  anguish  bled, 
And  oft  had  tears  of  sorrow  shed. 
He,  trembling,  came;  for  sure,  he  thought, 
No  good  on  earth  he  'd  ever  wrought; 
Therefore,  thought  he,  no  blissful  state 
In  the  beyond  could  him  await. 

The  shell  again  stern  Justice  smote, 
And  now  it  gave  a  silvery  note — 
A  note  of  music,  soft  and  sweet 
As  words  that  pass  when  angels  meet. 
Then  Justice  smiled,  and  at  his  side 
Sweet  Mercy  stood  and  softly  cried: 

"  Now  welcome!  welcome!  scourged  one, 

Thine  earthly  sorrows  all  are  o'er; 
No  tear  of  anguish  shed  on  earth 
Shall  dim  thine  eyes  on  yonder  shore! 

"  The  tears  of  sorrow  thou  hast  shed 

Shall  be  bright  gems  and  jewels  now; 
And  thorns  that  pierced  thy  bleeding  heart 
Sweet  roses  on  thine  angel  brow." 

Then  softly  swung  the  crystal  gate — 

When,  lo!  an  angel  band 
Gave  welcome  to  the  coming  one 

To  the  bright  spirit  land  ! 

I  woke,  and  found  't  was  all  a  dream 
That  with  the  night  had  fled; 

But  still  the  lesson  I  received 
As  by  an  angel  read. 

San  Francisco,  1885. 


TO   THE   TOILING   SONS   OF    EARTH. 


"  Labor  omnia  vincit." 

Now,  give  to  me  a  listening  ear, 

Ye  manly  sons  of  toil, 
Who  use  the  tool,  or  plough  the  sea, 

Or  till  the  fruitful  soil! 

Great  Nature's  works  are  all  divine, 

And  he  (whoe'er  he  be) 
Who  may  infract  her  sacred  laws 

Must  pay  the  penalty. 

All  things  on  earth  that  man  can  need, 

His  wants  to  satisfy — 
To  please  the  eye,  to  charm  the  ear, 

Or  taste  to  gratify — 

All  works  of  thought,  of  art  or  skill, 

The  summer  fruit  and  grain, 
Are  products  of  industrious  hand 

And  of  laborious  brain. 

In  Nature's  realms  all  motion  is, 
From  whispering  summer  breeze 

To  force  that  formed  the  mightiest  orb 
And  gathered  rolling  seas; 

From  faintest  light  that  glow-worm  gives 

In  sultry  summer  night 
To  lightning's  flash  from  stormy  cloud 

And  noonday  sunbeam  bright; 

From  snowflake  on  the  wintry  blast 

To  planet  circling  far; 
From  atom  chained  in  polar  ice 

To  distant  flaming  star! 


i8o     TO    THE   TOILING   SONS  OF  EARTH. 

All  in  harmonious  order  move 

To  Nature's  laws  sublime, 
As  on  the  eternal  dial-plate 

They  mark  the  years  of  time. 

From  viewless  gases  springs  the  rock, 

And  moisture,  heat,  and  cold 
In  time  convert  its  flinty  form 

Into  the  fruitful  mould; 

From  which  the  tiny  blade  of  grass, 

And  tree,  and  plant  are  born, 
And  summer  fruit,  and  golden  grain, 

And  flower  that  scents  the  morn! 

The  lowest  reptile  hath  its  use, 

Some  office  to  perform; 
Nor  summer  breeze  more  heathful  is 

Than  is  the  wintry  storm. 

The  beast  that  through  the  forest  roams, 

The  bird  that  cleaves  the  air, 
All  things  that  live  and  move  on  earth 

In  Nature's  labors  share. 

The  tree  and  plant  well  nurtured  are 

By  sunshine,  rain,  and  dew; 
And  Nature  gives  to  beast  and  bird 

Its  food  and  raiment,  too. 

Man,  like  the  beast,  of  earth  is  born — 

Is  from  her  bosom  fed; 
And,  like  the  beast,  he  there  should  find 

A  place  to  lay  his  head. 

But  he  must  seek  with  Labor's  hand 

The  food  that  Nature  yields 
To  beast  and  bird,  without  their  care, 

Through  all  her  teeming  fields. 

Man  is  the  youngest  child  of  earth, 
And  far  more  helpless  he 


TO    THE    TOILING    SONS  OF  EARTH.     181 

Than  beast,  or  bird,  or  reptile  low, 
Or  fish  that  swims  the  sea. 

All  these  from  Nature's  bounteous  hand 

Receive  their  daily  feed; 
But  man  must  use  his  hands  and  brain 

To  find  what  he  may  need. 

Each  human  being  then  should  find 

Some  little  spot  on  earth 
Where  he  may  make  a  sheltering  home — 

For  'tis  his  right  by  birth. 

Let  him  who  holds  broad  tracts  of  land, 

Of  mountain,  hill,  and  plain, 
With  "  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills  " 

And  fields  of  golden  grain, — 

Remember,  that  by  Nature's  laws 

No  right  can  he  sustain 
To  the  broad  leagues  that  now  he  claims 

Of  mountain,  hill,  and  plain, 

While  starving  want  has  not  a  place 

To  lay  its  wretched  head, 
And  homeless  orphans  throng  the  earth 

Who  cry  for  daily  bread! 

All  have  a  right  to  breathe  the  air, 

And  drink  the  crystal  wave, 
To  till  the  earth  from  whence  they  sprang 

And  where  they  find  a  grave — 

And  he  who,  with  a  grasping  hand, 

By  cunning,  force,  or  guile, 
Or  under  technic  form  of  law 

These  sacred  rights  defile, 

Before  a  stern  tribunal  shall 

Be  held  to  strict  account 
Of  what  he  owes,  and  then  be  called 

To  pay  the  full  amount. 


182     TO    THE   TOILING    SONS   OF  EARTH. 

Where  one  great  palace  proudly  stands 
'Mid  lawn,  and  lake,  and  park, 

A  hundred  huts  where  misery  dwells 
The  region  sadly  mark — 

Where  hardest  toil  for  scanty  food 

Is  the  poor  peasant's  fate, 
That  some  proud  lord  may  sumptuous  fare 

And  dwell  in  high  estate— 

That  he  may  spend  his  worthless  life 

In  wild  debauchery, 
Nor  count  the  groans  that  buy  for  him 

His  idle  luxury. 

Oh,  when  will  man  this  lesson  learn, 

That  he  alone  is  great 
Who,  by  his  honest,  patient  toil, 

Himself  may  elevate? 

The  jewelled  sword  for  warrior  wrought 

In  time  will  turn  to  rust, 
And  palace,  by  the  tyrant  built, 

Will  crumble  into  dust — 

While  he  who  bids  a  flower  to  bloom 

Upon  a  desert  spot, 
A  record  makes  which  will  remain 

When  he  shall  be  forgot. 

Then,  Sons  of  Labor,  list  to  one 

Who  has  a  toiler  been 
Till  he  has  filled  the  measure  full 

Of  three  score  years  and  ten, 

And  e'er  has  found  that  honest  toil 

Has  met  a  just  reward; 
That  prayers,  by  honest  Labor  made, 

Most  surely  will  be  heard. 

Then  let  the  sound  of  Labor's  voice 
Keep  time  to  merry  song, 


TO    THE    TOILING    SONS   OF  EARTH.     183 

As  ye  with  earnest  purpose  toil 
To  right  what  may  be  wrong; 

Until  sweet  Peace  and  Beauty  dwell 

Where  deserts  once  had  been, 
And  where  the  lordly  palace  stood 

The  cottage  may  be  seen. 

San  Francisco,  1886. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


THESE  lines  were  written  in  an-,\\ «.  r  to  a  K-tur  on  the  spirit  of  the  times 
—the  general  tendency  to  acquire  great  wealth,  social  distinction,  etc.,  in 
preference  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  and  the  cultivation  of  the 
gentler  qualities  of  the  mind.  And  for  what  ?  When  will  it  end  ?  'T  will 
most  surely  end  some  time! 

But  not  as  ends  the  rosy  cloud 

Above  the  ocean  blue, 
Which  melts  away  in  crystal  showers 

Or  drops  of  morning  dew — 

Which  fall  upon  the  meadow  green 

And  on  the  sunny  plain, 
And  bring  to  life  the  summer  flower 

And  feed  the  golden  grainj 

But  like  the  angry,  dashing  wave 

That  breaks  upon  the  shore, 
And  backward  rolls  into  the  deep, 

Where  it  is  heard  no  more. 

Aye,  such  is  wild  Ambition's  end! 

An  angry,  dashing  wave 
Which  breaks  upon  a  barren  shore, 

Where  it  must  find  a  grave. 

Oh,  why  will  mortals  madly  rush 

Against  the  bars  of  Fate? 
And  disregard  the  sunny  path 

That  leads  through  Wisdom's  gate 

To  pleasant  fields,  where  sunny  skies 

O'erhang  the  meadows  green, 
Where  flowers  of  sweetest  fragrance  bloom 

By  lakes  of  silver  sheen. 

But  why  lament  that  this  is  so! 
Since  man  will  ever  be 


A    FRAGMENT.  185 

Ambition's  slave  and  Passion's  thrall 
Till  Wisdom  set  him  free. 

And  when,  by  scourging,  he  has  found 

That  passion  does  not  pay, 
He  then  may  stop  his  mad  career 

And  seek  "the  better  way." 

When  this  may  come,  no  one  can  tell — 

But  come,  it  doubtless  will; 
Since  all  the  plans  that  Nature  lays 

She  surely  will  fulfil, 

Though  kingdoms  rise  and  empires  fall, 

And  wasting  whirlwinds  blow, — 
For  Nature's  mills  ne'er  cease  to  grind, 

Although  they  may  grind  slow. 

The  mushroom  gets  its  growth  complete 

Within  a  single  night, 
While  ages  are  required  to  make 

The  brilliant  diamond  bright. 

The  mushroom  (which  is  born  of  filth) 

Will  perish  in  a  day, 
While  the  enduring  gem  is  bright 

While  empires  pass  away. 

San  Francisco,  September  21,  1893. 


LELAND    STANFORD    JR.    UNIVERSITY 


"  Thf  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
Tlif  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inhetit,  shall  dissolve  ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind." 

SHAKESPEARE,   IN  THE  "  TKMPKST. 

WITH  vision  clear,  in  thought  sublime, 
I  backward  glanced  to  ancient  time; 
Ere  man  had  left  the  brutal  age, 
Or  pen  had  writ  historic  page; 
Ere  he  had  light  from  reason  caught, 
Or  by  fair  Science  had  been  taught; 
Ere  harp  by  minstrel's  hand  was  strung, 
Or  song  by  epic  bard  was  sung. 

He  naked  roamed  the  ancient  woods, 
And  fearless  swam  the  rolling  floods; 
He  warred  the  wolf  and  mountain  bear, 
And  smote  the  lion  in  his  lair. 
The  hollow  oak  and  rocky  cave 
To  him  sufficient  shelter  gave. 

Dissolving,  passed  that  hoary  page; 
Another  came!  of  brighter  age: 

In  the  famed  land  of  Rameses, 
And  by  the  rolling  Euphrates, 
And  where  the  sacred  Ganges  flows, 
Fed  by  the  white  Himalayan  snows — 
I  saw  Cyclopean  structures  rise 
Towards  the  bending  azure  skies, 
That  tyrants  proud,  of  haughty  name, 
Might  thus  acquire  immortal  fame. 

Where  are  they  now  ?    They  passed  away 
Like  insects  of  a  summer's  day; 


LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY.     187 

Their  crumbling  bones  in  silence  rot, 
And  their  proud  names  are  now  forgot. 

The  solemn  Sphinx  in  silence  stands 
Half  buried  'neath  the  Libyan  sands, 
Nor  speaks  to  tell  its  age  on  earth, 
Or  who  it  was  that  gave  it  birth. 

The  cause  that  reared  the  pyramid 
Is  in  the  mist  of  ages  hid, 
And  none  can  tell  what  Pharaoh's  tomb 
Is  shrouded  in  its  silent  gloom. 

Dark  ruins  now  are  found  alone 
Where  stood  the  mighty  Babylon, 
And,  like  a  dream  at  dawn  of  day, 
Proud  Nineveh  has  passed  away. 

The  wandering  Arab  cooks  his  food 
Where  once  Bel-Nimrod's  temple  stood, 
And  night-bird  makes  its  lonely  nest 
Where  the  Assyrian  monarchs  rest. 

In  hundred-gated  Thebes  no  more 
Of  human  strife  is  heard  the  roar, 
And  silence  now  its  vigil  keeps 
Where  Karnak's  ancient  ruin  sleeps. 

That  scene  barbaric,  melting,  fled — 
Another  picture  came  instead: 
A  picture  bright  of  later  times, 
Of  classic  age,  and  classic  climes, 
When  savage  grandeur  gave  its  place 
To  Grecian  art  and  Roman  grace. 

Corinthian  sculpture  now  was  seen 
Where  rude  Cyclopean  works  had  been. 
Of  Love  Divine,  the  poet  sang, 
From  Parian  marbles  Beauty  sprang, 
And,  fresh  as  flowers  at  dewy  morn, 
Bright  forms  were  on  the  canvas  born. 
On  sacred  mount,  by  rolling  flood, 


188    LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY. 

The  lofty  temple  proudly  stood, 
While  deep  within  the  classic  shade 
Was  seen  the  marble  colonnade. 

Like  magic  views  on  canvas  cast, 
Red  scenes  of  war  before  me  passed, 
Where,  hand  to  hand,  on  fields  of  blood, 
Contending  hosts  in  battle  stood. 
I  saw  the  phalanx  meet  the  shock 
Of  fiercest  battle,  as  a  rock 
Unshaken  meets  the  dashing  main, 
And  backward  rolls  the  tide  again. 

I  saw  Achilles  strike  the  blow 
That  laid  the  crested  Hector  low; 
I  heard  the  Argive  warrior's  yell 
When  Troy's  brave  son  in  battle  fell; 
I  saw  old  Priam's  hoary  head 
Low  bowed  in  anguish  o'er  the  dead, 
And  on  the  breeze  was  borne  to  me 
The  sighs  of  sad  Andromache; 
While  Illium's  daughters  wept  in  vain 
O'er  Priam's  son  in  battle  slam. 

I  saw  upon  the  Grecian  coast 

Proud  Xerxes,  with  his  bannered  host; 

Beheld  the  daring  Spartan  band 

That,  to  defend  their  mountain  land, 

Poured  out  their  blood  like  water  free, 

And  died  at  old  Thermopylae. 

And  Philip's  bold,  all-conquering  son, 

\Vh<>  many  hundred  battles  won, 

Who  armies  led  to  Indian  lands, 

And  o'er  the  burning  Libyan  sands, 

In  the  lewd  court  of  Babylon, 

Writh  reason,  will,  and  wisdom  gone— 

Him,  too,  I  saw  all  helpless  lie, 

And,  conquered  by  his  passions,  die. 

I  heard  the  slow  and  measured  tread 
Of  conquering  legions,  homeward  led; 


LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY.     189 

I  saw  the  cohorts  in  their  march 
Beneath  the  grand  triumphal  arch; 
I  saw  the  eagles  proud  displayed, 
Which  Rome,  Imperial  Mistress  made 
From  Scythian  snows  to  where  the  breeze 
Blows  softly  o'er  the  southern  seas; 
From  Afric's  sands,  and  Indian  plain, 
To  where  wide  rolls  the  western  main. 

I  heard  the  notes  of  Homer's  lyre, 
And  Pindar's  odes  of  living  fire; 
I  saw  the  famed  Demosthenes, 
And  heard  the  words  of  Socrates; 
And  Plato's  voice  in  accents  clear 
Fell  softly  on  my  listening  ear, 
While  Virgil  sang  in  pastoral  strain 
Of  flocks,  and  herds,  and  yellow  grain. 

Like  midnight  dreams  at  dawn  of  day, 
That  classic  period  passed  away; 
From  youth  to  age,  its  race  had  run, 
When  sank  in  storms  its  noon-day  sun. 
On  Tadmor's  waste  of  desert  sands, 
The  broken  column  lonely  stands, 
And  time-worn  ruins  sadly  tell 
That  cloud  and  darkness  on  it  fell. 

But  though  the  Grecian  portico 
By  wasting  time  is  now  laid  low — 
And  though  the  Roman  Pantheon 
Has  now  to  crumbling  ruins  gone — 
And  though  no  more  the  legions  march 
'Neath  Scipio's  grand  triumphal  arch — 
And  though  the  banners  that  they  bore 
Will  awe  the  trembling  world  no  more — 
Yet  still  the  wisdom  of  that  age 
Is  writ  on  many  a  classic  page; 
And  highest  lessons  still  are  taught 
In  works  by  classic  artists  wrought. 
Corinthian  columns  still  adorn 
The  marble  palace  lately  born; 


190     LELAXD   STAFFORD  JR.   t\\7l'EKS/rY 

And  still  Ionic  grandeur  stands 
A  model  in  all  cultured  lands. 

Successive  pictures  came  and  passed 
Like  fleeting  shades  on  canvas  cast; 
Until  the  fiery  storm  awoke 
Which  on  the  Eternal  City  broke, 
When  sava.ue  Goth  and  Vandal  came 
And  gave  her  pride  to  sword  and  flame. 

I  heard  the  wild  barbaric  yell 
When  Rome's  Imperial  grandeur  fell; 
From  whence  the  classic  Muses  fled 
With  weeping  eyes  and  drooping  head. 
I  saw  the  stormy  clouds  that  long 
Hung  o'er  the  land  of  classic  song, 
When  Learning  sought  the  cloistered  shade,. 
And  there  its  lonely  dwelling  made; 
While  Alaric  fierce,  with  savage  band, 
With  fire  and  sword  swept  o'er  the  land; 
And  Attila,  named  the  "Scourge  of  God," 
Wild  war  and  rapine  spread  abroad. 

Rude  was  the  dark  mediaeval  age, 
And  blotted  its  historic  page; 
I  >ark,  sullen  clouds,  in  midnight  gloom, 
Hung  like  a  pall  o'er  Learning's  tomb. 
The  serf  was  ruled  by  brutal  hand 
And  Superstition's  magic  wand; 
The  feudal  lord  controlled  his  breath, 
And,  as  he  willed,  gave  life  or  death! 

Yet,  though  the  clouds  in  darkness  hung 
Where  Plato  taught  and  Virgil  sung, 
Still,  here  and  there,  a  beaming  light 
Shone  brightly  through  the  sullen  night. 
Petrarch  awoke  the  lyric  strain— 
And  Dante's  muse,  the  harp  again; 
With  brush  divine,  young  Raphael  came,. 
And  e'en  surpassed  Apelles'  fame; 
And  Angelo,  with  magic  stroke, 
From  marble  cold  bright  beauty  woke; 


LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY.     191 

While  other  lights  shone  through  the  gloom 
That  hung  o'er  Learning's  silent  tomb. 
But  Science  still  in  darkness  lay 
In  waiting  for  the  coming  day! 

While  Europe  thus  in  darkness  lay, 

And  Timur,  the  Tartar,  far  away 

Beyond  the  rolling  Euxine  sea, 

Led  savage  hordes  to  victory, 

With  flaming  torch  and  fiery  wrath, 

And  leaving  ruin  in  his  path — 

A  Spirit  bright  was  born  on  earth : 

Of  Thought  Divine,  it  had  its  birth, 

And  angels  hailed  the  rosy  morn 

That  saw  the  Art  of  Printing  born — 

Redeemer  of  Humanity 

And  bulwark  strong  of  Liberty! 

And  highest  honors  surely  must 

Be  given  to  the  name  of  Faust — 

Since  he  it  was  who  struck  the  light 

That  backward  rolled  the  clouds  of  night; 

Who  wrought  with  skill  a  magic  key 

To  spring  the  bolts  of  tyranny. 

No  sculptured  marble  vigil  keeps 
Where  Alaric's  dust,  forgotten,  sleeps; 
Nor  where  Attila's  bed  was  made, 
When  in  the  dust  his  bones  were  laid. 
And  Timur's  shaggy  demons  passed 
Like  desert  whirlwind's  scorching  blast, 
Whose  fiery  breath,  though  fiercely  hot, 
When  it  has  passed  is  soon  forgot. 
But  Faust  shall  live  on  history's  page 
Down  to  the  time  of  latest  age; 
For  surely  he  received  from  heaven 
The  gift  which  he  to  man  has  given. 

Sweet  was  the  song  the  angels  sung, 
When  they  beheld  the  spirit  young 
Which  would,  in  time,  become  to  be 
Redeemer  of  Humanity! 


i92     LELANI)   STANFORD  JR.  UNIVERSITY. 

The  age  of  darkness  now  had  passed, 
The  rosy  dawn  had  broke  at  last, 
In  time  to  shed  a  beaming  light 
O'er  the  long,  dark  mediaeval  night. 

Bright  Learning  from  her  sleep  awoke! 
Young  Science  now  arose  and  spoke! 
And  Thought  Divine,  with  vision  bright, 
Demanded  its  inherent  right! 

Astronomy,  with  piercing  sight, 
Looked  out  upon  the  fields  of  night, 
And  bade  the  rolling  orbs  to  tell 
How  they  the  seasons  marked  so  well. 

Discovery  boldly  sailed  the  tide 
Of  unknown  sea  and  ocean  wide; 
And  while  on  search  it  was  intent, 
It  found  a  Western  Continent! 

Bright  Science  now  assumed  the  rule, 
In  place  of  the  Empiric  school — 
The  student  sounded  Nature's  laws, 
And  of  effect  inquired  the  cause; 
Wise  Harvey  watched  the  circling  blood, 
And  clearly  traced  the  crimson  flood; 
The  chemist  sought  the  latent  force, 
And  chained  the  lightning  in  its  course, 
To  it  commands  and  orders  gave 
That  made  it  an  obedient  slave. 
And  thus,  was  knowledge  shown  to  be 
The  guardian  strong  of  Liberty! 

Thus,  from  the  dark,  barbaric  age, 
As  shown  by  dim  historic  page, 
The  race  of  man  advancement  made 
From  brutal  state  to  higher  grade, 
Till  now  it  stands  on  higher  ground 
Than  where  the  ancient  race  was  found. 

Though  histories  writ  of  modern  times, 

I  ).n  k  records  show  of  brutal  crinu-s. 


LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY.     193 

Yet  still  the  stains  are  not  so  dark 
As  those  that  ancient  pages  mark. 

Where  once  grim  Moloch's  altars  smoked, 
And  savage  priests  his  power  invoked; 
Where  once  the  frowning  Bastile  stood 
With  portals  stained  with  human  blood, 
With  dungeons  dark,  where  captives  sighed, 
And  hopeless  wept,  and  guiltless  died — 
Stand  temples  bright  to  Liberty 
And  monuments  to  Charity, 
Where  Nature's  truths  divine  are  taught, 
And  gifts  of  gentle  love  are  brought, 
Which  set  the  mind  from  bondage  free 
And  kinder  make  Humanity! 

O'er  all  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Are  seen  the  works  of  Charity! 

In  shelter  made  for  lonely  age 

From  summer  storms  and  winter's  rage; 

And  orphaned  babes  and  helpless  blind 

Protection  and  asylum  find; 

While  those  whose  minds  unhinged  are, 

Are  guarded  well  with  sheltering  care — 

All  these  proclaim  the  race  to  be 

In  progress  towards  divinity! 

And  here  upon  this  sunny  shore 
That  hears  the  western  ocean  roar, 
Where  bright  the  summer  sunbeams  shine 
On  fruitful  field  and  clustering  vine, 
Where  mountain  peaks  o'erlook  the  plain 
O'erspread  with  fields  of  golden  grain — 
Fair  Science  now  has  found  a  seat, 
And  here  has  reared  a  temple  meet, 
Where  "  Palo  Alto  "  cradled  lies 
Beneath  the  bending  azure  skies, 
Where  softly  sings  the  summer  breeze 
That  whispers  of  the  western  seas. 


194    LELAND  STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY. 

And  here,  within  this  quiet  shade, 
Which  shall,  in  time,  be  classic  made, 
As  was  the  grove  where  Plato  walked 
And  with  his  young  disciples  talked — 
Will  now  be  taught  the  classic  lore 
Which  lit  the  ancient  world  of  yore: 
The  epic  hymns  by  Homer  sung; 
The  pastoral  songs  of  Virgil's  tongue; 
The  wisdom  bright  of  Socrates, 
And  justice  of  Aristides; 
The  art  that  gave  to  Phidias  fame, 
And  honored  made  Apelles'  name. 

The  wisdom  needed  to  be  great 
As  honored  ruler  of  a  State; 
Forensic  lore,  to  make  one  meet 
To  sit  upon  the  judgment  seat; 
The  chemic  laws,  that  bind  the  force 
And  guide  the  atom  in  its  course; 
And  laws  mechanic  that  control 
The  circling  planets  as  they  roll. 
And  humbler  arts  can  there  be  learned, 
By  which  man's  daily  bread  is  earned; 
So  that,  with  self-reliance,  he 
May  ever  independent  be! 

Colossal  structures,  towering  high, 
Tell  of  the  bondsman's  bitter  sigh; 
And  storied  tombs,  where  heroes  sleep, 
But  for  a  time  their  memories  keep. 
But  he  who,  by  a  generous  deed, 
With  willing  hand  supplies  a  need 
Of  fellow-man  (whate'er  it  be), 
To  raise  him  in  humanity, — 
Will  leave  a  name  on  history's  page 
Which  will  go  down  to  future  age, 
And  which  will  be  more  lasting  far 
Than  storied  urns  and  marbles  are! 
Since,  should  the  act  be  quite  forgot — 
P>v  those  on  earth  remembered  not — 


LELAND   STANFORD  JR.   UNIVERSITY.     195 

Yet  still  it  will  effective  be 

In  Nature's  vast  eternity, 

Though  orb  should  cease  its  course  to  run 

Around  the  glowing  central  sun! 

Then,  ye  who  seek  this  quiet  shade 

Where  Learning  has  her  temple  made, 

That  ye  may  there  communion  hold 

With  spirits  bright  and  sages  old; 

Beneath  the  dark,  umbrageous  trees 

Wise  converse  hold  with  Socrates; 

With  Plato  walk  the  shady  grove, 

And  o'er  the  fields  with  Virgil  rove; 

Hear  Homer's  voice  upon  the  breeze, 

And  listen  to  Demosthenes; 

With  Euclid  study  angling  lines, 

And  tell  the  measure  of  their  sines; 

With  Newton  measure  acting  force 

That  holds  the  planet  in  its  course; 

With  Franklin  catch  the  electric  light, 

And  chain  the  lightning  in  its  flight; 

And  ye  who  seek  in  lower  sphere 

For  practic  skill  and  knowledge  here — 

Remember  all  this  truth  sublime, 

Which  naught  can  change  in  coming  time: — 

All  wisdom  is  by  labor  gained, 

And  that  which  is  not  thus  obtained 

Is  valued  not,  and  soon  is  lost, 

Since  its  acquirement  nothing  cost. 

Another  truth  ye '11  bear  in  mind, 
Which,  by  experience,  ye  will  find: — 
The  law  that  rules  the  humblest  things 
Is  just  as  great  as  that  which  wings 
The  rolling  planet  in  its  flight 
And  rules  the  tempest  in  its  might! 

Another  still,  ye  '11  not  forget, 
Which  must  be  deep  in  memory  set: — 
The  humblest  labor,  justly  done, 


196    LELAND  STANFORD  JR.  UNIVERSITY 

By  which  man's  daily  bread  is  won, 
As  noble  is,  by  Nature's  laws, 
As  noblest  act  in  highest  cause! 

Thus,  it  is  seen,  from  all  the  past, 
That  monuments,  to  always  last, 
That  may  defy  all-wasting  Time, 
Must  builded  be  by  Thought  sublime! 
Hence,  student's  pen  is  mightier  far 
Than  weapons  of  the  warrior  are. 

San  Francisco,  June,  1891. 


THE  DYING  SINNER  AND  THE  CONFESSOR. 


SINNER. 

THEY  tell  me,  Father,  I  must  die, 
And  that  the  solemn  hour  is  nigh 

And  close  at  hand, 
When  I  must  say  to  all  good-bye 

Who  round  me  stand. 

And,  as  by  friends  I  have  been  told 
That  you  have  learned  from  prophets  old 

What  may  be  found 
Beyond  that  river  dark  and  cold, 

Where  I  am  bound — 

I  pray  you  now,  if  this  be  so, 
Before  I  let  my  moorings  go, 

Give  me  a  lift; 
That  where  I  'm  going  I  may  know, 

When  cast  adrift. 

Then  speak,  I  pray,  and  quickly,  too! 
For  by  this  cold  and  clammy  dew 

Upon  my  brow, 
I  know  but  fleeting  moments  few 

Are  left  me  now. 

The  holy  Father  shook  his  head 
As  to  the  dying  man  he  said: 
;  I  fear,  my  son,  you  're  somewhat  late 
In  thinking  of  the  future  state; 
But  I  will  see  what  can  be  done 
Before  the  sands  of  life  have  run. 
But,  first  of  all,  you  must  confess 
All  that  in  life  you  've  done  amiss; 
Another  point — and,  to  be  brief, 
You  must  be  sound  in  your  belief, 


198      DYING    SINM'.K    AND     CONFESSOR. 

That  you,  like  all  the  sons  of  earth, 
Have  been  condemned  from  your  birth, 
Conceived  in  guilt  and  born  in  sin, 
That  wicked  only  you  have  been; 
That  sinless  blood,  and  this  alone, 
Can  for  the  guilt  of  man  atone; 
That  angry  justice  ever  cries 
For  streaming  gore  as  sacrifice." 


SINNER. 

Now,  by  my  faith!  if  this  be  true, 
I  think  I  shall  have  much  to  do 

Before  I  leave; 
And  more  in  fact  than  I  '11  get  through, 

As  I  believe. 

But,  Father,  hold!  can  this  be  just? 
For,  truth  to  tell,  confess  I  must, 

That  I  can 't  see 
Why  helpless  mortals,  born  of  dust, 

So  damned  should  be! 

I  little  know  of  learned  creed, 
But  can  the  book  of  Nature  read, 

And  there  find  cause 
Why  man  should  ever  strictly  heed 

Bright  Wisdom's  laws. 

And  in  this  book  I  find  it  taught 
That  pardon  for  a  crime  is  bought 

By  actions  good; 
But  that  redemption  ne'er  was  wrought 

By  shedding  blood. 

And  as  for  death— I  look  around 
Wherever  teeming  life  is  found, 

On  land  or  sea, — 
And  find  that  all  alike  are  bound 

By  this  decree. 


DYING    SINNER    AND     CONFESSOR.       199 

So,  Father,  then,  it  seems  to  me 
That  death  a  punishment  cannot  be 

For  some  dark  crime 
Committed  by  our  ancestry 

In  early  time! 

But  that  it  comes  by  laws  divine, 
As  kind,  and  gentle,  and  benign 

As  those  that  bring 
The  balmy  breath  and  bright  sunshine 

Of  flowery  spring. 

You  say  that  I  must  be  confessed 
Ere  I  can  by  the  Church  be  blessed, 

Or  hope  to  greet 
A  welcome  in  that  land  of  rest 

Where  angels  meet  ? 

Upon  the  earth  I  've  journeyed  long; 
Sometimes  with  grief — sometimes  with  song — 

I  've  won  and  lost; 
And  when,  by  chance,  I  have  done  wrong, 

I  've  paid  the  cost. 

Now,  this  is  all  that  I  can  say, 

And  if  with  this  your  Reverence  may 

A  passport  give, 
Then  do  it  quickly,  now  I  pray, 

While  yet  I  live! 


PRIEST. 

I  nought  can  do  for  your  relief, 

With  all  this  bitter  unbelief; 

For  as  'tis  writ,  believe  you  must, 

Or  else,  beyond  remede,  you  're  lost! 

I  cannot  speak  of  Nature's  laws, 

Nor  do  I  seek  to  find  a  cause; 

I  only  know  what's  in  the  Word 

Where  I  find  writ:     "  Thus  saith  the  Lord: 


200      DYING    SINNER    AND    CONFESSOR. 

SINNER. 

Your  Reverence!  then,  my  chance  I  '11  take, 
And  see  what  weather  I  can  make 

Upon  that  deep, 
O'er  which  no  angry  billows  break 

Nor  tempests  sweep. 

Lit  by  the  hand  of  Love  Divine, 
Perchance  some  beaming  light  may  shine 

To  pilot  me, 
And  that  some  gentle  law  benign 

My  guide  may  be. 

The  Power  that  bids  the  lily  bloom 
And  lays  man  in  the  silent  tomb, 

I  do  not  fear; 
Nor  do  I  yet  see  aught  of  gloom 

About  the  bier. 

E'en  now,  methinks  I  catch  a  gleam 
Of  something  like  a  beauteous  dream, 

As  seen  at  night,  * 

When  Fancy's  airy  chambers  beam 

With  rosy  light! 

And  brighter  still  the  picture  grows, 
And  sweeter  forms  of  beauty  shows, 

That  on  me  gaze 
From  emerald  bowers  where  blooms  the  rose 

'  Mid  golden  haze! 

1  see  a  land  of  brighter  sheen 
Than  e'er  by  mortal  eye  was  seen, 

Far,  far  away ! 
Where  bright  flowers  bloom  in  meadows  green, 

And  fountains  play. 

I  hear  the  song  the  angels  sing 
To  tuneful  harps  of  softest  string, 

As  round  they  stand 
To  bear  my  soul  on  golden  wing 

To  that  bright  land! 


DYING    SINNER    AND     CONFESSOR.       201 

As  on  this  mortal  couch  I  lie, 
I  do  not  find  it  hard  to  die; 

In  truth,  'tis  sweet — 
'Tis  but  on  rosy  wings  to  fly, 

Bright  forms  to  meet! 

Now  farewell,  Father,  we  may  meet, 
And  blithely  may  each  other  greet 

When  life  is  o'er, 
And  you  shall  tread  with  weary  feet 

Earth's  paths  no  more. 


The  dying  sinner  sank  to  rest 
Like  infant  on  its  mother's  breast, 
And  went  his  way  the  priest  to  wait 
On  those  who  sought  Saint  Peter's  gate. 


San  Francisco,  1869. 


TJFI7ERSIT7 


THE  SINNER  BEFORE  SAINT  PETER. 


SAINT  PETER. 

Now  tell  me,  sir,  what  you  have  done 
In  the  long  race  that  you  have  run, 
Since  first  your  earthly  life  begun 

In  early  morn; 
Come,  tell  me  now,  what  you  have  won 

By  being  born  ? 

How  you  your  earthly  life  have  spent; 
If  you  to  crime  yourself  have  lent; 
On  selfish  purpose  have  been  bent 

To  gather  pelf; 
Nor  e'er  for  others  cared  a  cent, 

Beside  yourself  ? 

So  out  with  what  you  have  to  say! 
In  language  clear,  as  bright  as  day; 
Nor  aught  conceal,  nor  think  to  play 

A  double  part; 
Nor  that  you  here  can  make  your  way 

By  cunning  art. 

SINNER. 

I  hear  you,  sir,  and  heed  you  well, 
And  I  the  honest  truth  will  tell, 
Though  it  may  send  my  soul  to  hell! 

My  life  on  earth 
A  mixture  was  of  good  and  ill, 

Of  grief  and  mirth. 

I  sometimes  in  the  realms  of  light 
Sweet  converse  held  with  angels  bright, 
But  often  'mid  the  glooms  of  night 
I  went  astray, 


THE  SINNER  BEFORE  SAINT  PETER.     203 

And  from  the  pleasant  paths  of  right 
Fell  far  away. 

I  've  gone  on  many  a  rattling  spree 
With  spirits  bright  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Have  mixed  in  scenes  of  revelry — 

And  too  have  run 
Full  many  a  rig  of  deviltry, 

But  all  in  fun. 

And  so  my  earthly  life,  in  brief, 
Has  been  a  scene  of  joy  and  grief; 
A  blooming  flower— a  withered  leaf, 

With  many  a  stain — 
And,  as  I  think,  a  blasted  sheaf 

With  little  grain. 

SAINT  PETER. 

Hold!  hold,  my  man!  now  that  will  do; 
I  know  that  what  you  say  is  true; 
And  faith!  to  me  '/  is  nothing  new ; 

For  I  have  run 
The  record  o'er  of  all  that  you 

On  earth  have  done. 

I  know  that  oft  you  've  wayward  been 
Among  the  reckless  sons  of  men; 
That  often  you  've  been  caught  within 

The  tempter's  trap; 
That  oft  you  've  trod  the  path  of  sin, 

A  thoughtless  chap; 

But,  by  the  record  left  behind, 
I  see  that  you  have  e'er  been  kind 
To  suffering  poor  and  helpless  blind; 

That  many  a  tear 
O'er  sorrowing  ones  you  've  shed,  I  find, 

When  none  were  near. 

Though  you  the  barley-bree  have  sipped, 
And  oft  with  jolly  friends  have  nipped — 


204     THE  SINNER  BEFORE  SAINT  PETER. 

And  though  you  often,  too,  have  slipped 

And  got  a  fall, 
You,  in  the  main,  have  upright  kept 

In  spite  of  all! 

Such  faults  as  these  from  follies  spring; 
And  though  they  always  suffering  bring 
And  leave  behind  a  passing  sting, 

They  often  teach 
Kind  Pity's  love  for  everything 

Within  her  reach. 

Although  your  righteous  robe  has  been 
To  hide  your  secret  thoughts  too  thin, 
Or  to  conceal  the  rags  within, — 

Your  soul,  I  see, 
Has  never  yet  been  clothed  in 

Hypocrisy. 

And  'mong  the  weeds  that  you  have  sown, 
Sweet  flowers  have  sprung,  to  you  unknown; 
These  wicked  weeds  have  now  been  mown 

And  cast  aside — 
While  the  bright  flowers  have  freshly  grown 

And  still  abide. 

I  know  while  on  the  tyrant's  head 
Your  curses  fell,  a  tear  you  've  shed 
In  silence  o'er  lone  Sorrow's  head, 

And  given  a  sigh 
For  those  whose  hearts  with  anguish  bled, 

As  they  passed  by. 

There 's  many  a  one  with  lengthened  face, 
With  austere  brow  and  solemn  pace, 
Who  thinks  to  find  a  goodly  place 

At  his  "new  birth," 
When  he  shall  end  his  selfish  race 

Upon  the  earth; 

Hut,  sure  as  death!  he  then  will  find 
That  records  he  has  left  behind 


THE  SINNER  BEFORE  SAINT  PETER.     205 

Which  tell  that  he  has  been  unkind — 

Has  crushed  the  poor, 
And  driven  the  wretched,  maimed,  and  blind 

Far  from  his  door — 

Will  send  him  down  to  deepest  hell, 
Where  selfish  slaves  of  Mammon  dwell! 
Who,  while  on  earth,  their  souls  they  sell 

For  sordid  wealth ; 
Who  gather  gold  and  guard  it  well 

By  fraud  and  stealth. 

While  reckless  sons  of  mirth  and  fun, 
Whose  earthly  lives  have  rattling  run, 
Yet,  who  have  acts  of  kindness  done, 

And  the  meanwhile 
Have  from  the  lips  of  Sorrow  won 

A  beaming  smile, — 

Will  find  themselves  in  meadows  green, 
Where  crystal  lakes  of  silver  sheen, 
And  vernal  groves  and  flowers  are  seen; 

Where  they  will  find 
A  meet  reward  for  what  they  've  been 

To  human  kind! 

So  you  can  pass  this  crystal  door 
And  to  the  realms  of  beauty  soar, 
W7hich  you  may  freely  wander  o'er, 

Until  you  find 
A  place  upon  that  sunny  shore 

To  suit  your  mind. 

San  Francisco,  1888. 


THE    HOLY    COAT. 


THK  coat  is  found  at  Argenteuil, 
The  Frenchman  he  believes; 

No,  says  the  German,  for  the  coat 
Is  surely  found  at  Treves! 

No  need  to  argue,  gentlemen, 

To  quarrel  or  to  fight, 
For  surely  there's  no  reason  why 

You  both  may  not  be  right. 

Although  the  humble  Nazarene 

No  royal  garments  wore, 
Still,  doubtless,  while  he  dwelt  on  earth 

Two  coats  he  had,  or  more  ! 

That  such,  indeed,  may  've  been  the  fact 

I  very  well  can  see; 
But  of  what  stuff  the  coats  were  made 

Is  now  what  puzzles  me — 

To  have  withstood  for  ages  long 

The  tooth  of  moth  and  rust, 
While  pillared  dome  and  marble  pile 

Have  crumbled  into  dust. 


San  Francisco,  1891. 


THE     MATERIALIST     AND     THE      SPIRIT 
UALIST. 


MATERIALIST. 

MY  spiritual  friend,  if  you  have  time 
To  listen  to  my  doggerel  rhyme, 
I  think  I  '11  clearly  prove  to  you 
That  your  wild  fancies  can't  be  true. 

Now,  to  begin,  you  will  allow 
To  patent  facts  that  you  must  bow; 
That  you  can  make  no  good  defence 
'Gainst  what  is  taught  by  common  sense. 

You  say  man's  soul  will  never  die, 
But  to  celestial  realms  will  fly; 
That  it  will  have  a  heavenly  birth 
When  it  shall  leave  the  vales  of  earth  ? 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  \{  this  you  can, 
Why  you  award  this  gift  to  man, 
Yet  it  deny  to  warbling  bird, 
To  roaming  beast  and  grazing  herd  ? 
Is  man  composed  of  finer  clay, 
More  graceful  is  in  form  than  they, 
Shows  he  more  wisdom  in  his  ways 
Than  beaver,  bee,  or  ant  displays  ? 

He  cannot  match  the  bounding  steed 
In  grace  of  form  or  winge'd  speed; 
The  sky-lark's  songs  are  sweeter  far 
Than  his  best  notes  of  music  are; 
The  toiling  ant  and  busy  bee 
Are  far  more  provident  than  he; 
The  faithful  dog  and  cooing  dove, 
Than  he  more  constant  are  in  love. 


208      MATERIALIST  AND    SI'l  RITUALIST. 

Now  don't  you  think  that  you're  unjust 
In  dooming  these  to  senseless  dust, 
While  you  give  man  a  dwelling  bright 
'Mong  angels  in  the  realms  of  light? 


SPIRITUALIST. 

My  honest  friend,  plain  truth  to  tell, 
As  far's  you  go,  you  reason  well; 
But  you  stop  short  the  highest  mark, 
And  leave  the  subject  in  the  dark. 

Now,  God  forbid,  that  I  deny 
To  aught  that  lives  beneath  the  sky, 
'Mong  all  the  myriad  living  throngs, 
Such  future  as  to  it  belongs. 
These  live  and  move  through  spirit-mind 
In  some  degree,  the  same  in  kind 
As  that  which  lights  an  angel's  brow 
In  highest  realms  of  beauty  now. 
The  bloom  upon  the  rose's  breast — 
The  love  that  warms  the  turtle's  nest — 
In  form,  though  transient  as  the  dew, 
In  higher  realms  will  live  anew! 
Since  humblest  children  of  the  earth 
Are  beings  of  celestial  birth. 

The  spirit-life  that  they  contain, 

Though  quenched  a  while,  will  shine  again; 

Since  nothing  is,  or  can  be  lost — 

But,  ever  from  decaying  dust, 

Like  rosy  beams  in  early  morn, 

In  other  form  again  is  born! 

Therefore,  my  friend,  you  see  that  I 
Do  not,  as  you  suppose,  deny 
That  beings  of  the  humblest  birth 
May  live  beyond  the  vales  of  earth. 

Man,  and  the  beast,  and  all  the  things 
That  Nature  into  being  brings, 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST.       209 

Spring  from  the  same  Infinite  Source, 
Each  taking  its  allotted  course. 
The  only  difference  is,  that  man 
Has  reached  a  higher  point,  and  can 
Soar  higher  in  the  realm  of  Cause 
And  deeper  delve  in  Nature's  laws. 

MATERIALIST. 

Your  reasoning,  sir,  is  new  to  me; 
But  in  the  view  you  take,  I  see 
Some  knotty  points,  which  much  I  fear 
Your  highest  reasoning  cannot  clear. 

You  will  admit  that,  in  his  shape, 
Man  little  is  above  the  ape- 
That  many  things  of  land  and  sea, 
In  form,  more  graceful  are  than  he — 
And  yet  you  claim,  in  luisdom's  way, 
That  he  is  higher  far  than  they — 
That  he  a  stronger  steed  can  ride, 
With  lofty  Reason  for  his  guide! 

If  this  be  so,  why  do  we  find 

So  many  of  the  human  kind 

More  soiled  than  they  by  sordid  dust, 

And  baser  far  in  sensual  lust  ? 

Now  let  us  mark  the  squirming  mass 
Of  human  reptiles  as  they  pass, 
Of  high  estate  and  low  degree, 
And  pictures  draw  of  what  we  see: 

The  royal  crown  upon  yon  head 

Is  smeared  with  blood  in  battle  shed; 

The  gaudy  plumes  that  hero  wears 
Are  stained  with  many  a  widow's  tears; 

Yon  pompous  son  of  lordly  wealth, 
Together  got  by  fraud  and  stealth, 
A  vampire  is — since  all  he  's  won 
Has  been  from  work  by  others  done; 


210      MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST. 

That  sordid  wretch,  with  form  so  bent, 
Who  thinks  alone  of  cent  per  cent, 
Is  shivering  in  the  wintry  cold, 
And  starves  himself  to  save  his  gold; 

Yon  canting  knave,  with  saintly  face, 
Who  occupies  a  teacher's  place, 
For  honest  purpose  is  not  fit, 
For  he 's  an  arrant  hypocrite — 
He  cares  not  for  his  neighbor's  life, 
But  slyly  loves  his  neighbor's  wife. 

Are  these  the  stuff  that  Nature  takes 
To  form  the  angels  which  she  makes? 
A  task  it  would  be  somewhat  tough 
To  make  an  angel  of  such  stuff! 

No  grain  from  thistles  can  you  reap, 
And  wolves  are  never  turned  to  sheep; 
Nor  silken  purse,  you  will  admit, 
From  ear  of  swine  was  ever  knit. 

SPIRITUALIST. 

My  honest  friend,  you  're  frank  I  see, 
And  your  frank  spirit  pleases  me — 
It  shows  to  me,  in  very  sooth, 
That  you  are  seeking  honest  truth. 

This  subject,  sir,  indeed  is  deep; 
But  if  your  reckoning  you  will  keep, 
I  now  will  try  to  prove  to  you 
That  honest  truth  /';;/  seeking,  too. 

Now  look  around  on  every  hand — 
On  earth,  in  air,  on  sea  and  land, 
Where'er  it  be — and  you  will  find 
How  well  the  mills  of  Nature  grind: 

The  curling  mist,  the  wandering  dust, 
The  mildew  damp  and  eating  rust, 
Are  just  as  much  beneath  control 
As  suns  that  shine  and  orbs  that  roll! 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST.       211 

The  bolt  that  rends  the  gnarled  oak 
Is  not  more  wayward  in  its  stroke 
Than  breeze  that  bends  the  waving  corn 
And  gently  fans  the  brow  of  morn! 

The  things  that  light  and  beauty  bring, 
From  tempest  wild  and  discord  spring; 
If  it  were  not  for  cloud  and  storm, 
We  ne'er  would  see  the  rainbow's  form; 
And  were  it  not  for  gloomy  night, 
We  ne'er  would  see  the  morning  light! 

And  thus  it  is,  that  seeming  ill 
Oft  springs  from  struggles  made  to  fill 
Some  yearning  void,  which  longs  to  feed 
Upon  such  food  as  it  may  need. 

Come,  let  us  see  if  now  we  can 
Apply  this  rule  to  thinking  man, 
The  highest  thing  on  earth  we  find 
With  moral  sense  and  reasoning  mind. 

As  motion  in  material  things 

From  craving  want  and  hunger  springs, 

So  in  the  moral  spheres  of  life 

Are  discords  found,  and  mental  strife. 

Man  longs  for  what  he  has  not  got, 
And  when  he  gets  it,  wants  it  not, 
But  roams  the  realms  of  nature  through 
In  search  of  something  that  is  new! 
He  values  not  what  he  has  done, 
Nor  prizes  what  he  may  have  won, 
But  forward  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
That  he  may  win  a  higher  prize! 

And  this  is  why  the  miser  old 
Himself  will  starve  to  save  his  gold; 
Ambition  seek  to  write  its  name 
Upon  the  loftiest  dome  of  Fame; 
The  warrior  boldly  risk  his  life 
On  battle-fields  in  mortal  strife; 


212      MATERIALIST  A.\n    STIRITUALIST. 

The  student  by  the  midnight  lamp, 
In  garret  toil,  or  cellar  damp. 

All  ever  look  with  longing  eyes 
To  that  which  in  the  future  lies — 
And  still  they  toil,  though  Reason  teach 
That  what  they  seek  they  cannot  reach. 

MATERIALIST. 

I  think  you  've  got  me  in  the  door, 
So  I  had  better  say  no  more, 
Since  I  must  frankly  own  to  you, 
(If  what  I've  claimed  indeed  be  true), 
The  humblest  thing  of  lowest  birth 
That  swims  the  sea,  or  crawls  the  earth, 
Whose  life  is  of  the  shortest  span, 
Is  better  off  than  reasoning  man — 

If  he  be  born  to  toil  and  sweat 
For  what 's  beyond  his  reach  to  get, 
He  'd  better  far  been  made  a  fly — 
Born  in  the  morn,  at  eve  to  die — 
Than  stand  on  earth,  as  he  does  now, 
With  Reason's  light  upon  his  brow, 
With  winged  Thought  that  flies  afar 
To  rolling  orb  and  shining  star! 
Of  all  on  earth  by  Nature  nursed, 
He  surely  is  the  most  accursed. 

SPIRITUALIST. 

By  all  the  rules  of  common  sense, 
Such  seems  to  be  the  consequence; 
But  let  me  try  and  help  you  through 
This  dismal,  dark,  and  miry  slough. 

If  Nature  worked  by  square  and  rule, 
As  workman  makes  a  chair  or  stool, 
Then  in  her  workshop  surely  she 
Would  prove  herself  a  botch  to  be — 
Since,  when  we  look  around,  we  find 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST.      213 

In  maimed  and  halt,  in  deaf  and  blind, 
Such  seeming  failures  on  her  part 
As  ne'er  were  found  in  perfect  art. 

But  Nature  works  by  other  plan 
In  making  insect,  beast,  and  man, — 
She  needs  no  hammer,  nail,  or  saw, 
But  works  alone  by  general  law. 

From  deepest  caves  of  darkest  night 
To  highest  realms  of  clearest  light, 
She  being  forms  in  each  degree 
To  fit  such  ends  as  she  may  see. 
In  lowest  realms,  'mid  roaring  storms 
And  sulphurous  clouds,  are  hideous  forms, 
Whose  monstrous  structures  fitted  are 
To  breathe  the  poisonous  vapors  there. 

Ascending  up  from  darkness  black, 
Through  raging  storm  and  rolling  rack, 
'Neath  leafy  tree  in  meadow  green 
Are  higher  forms  of  beauty  seen. 

And  upward  still,  from  sphere  to  sphere, 
From  twilight  shades  to  regions  clear, 
Ascending  spirit  wings  its  flight 
To  regions  of  sublimest  light! 
From  whence  it  scans  the  vista  vast 
Through  which  in  aeons  it  has  passed, 
Since  last  it  winged  its  flight  to  earth 
With  yearnings  for  a  mortal  birth. 

Through  this  vast  journey,  too  sublime 
To  be  expressed  by  marks  of  time, 
All  spirits  pass,  that  they  may  be 
Incarnate  in  mortality. 

Long,  long  they  rest  in  infant  sleep, 
Of  which  no  records  they  can  keep, 
Ere  they  ascend  to  sensuous  life 
Where  passion  dwells  in  warring  strife. 
They  sleep  in  rock  and  morning  dew, 


214      MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST. 

They  tint  the  rose  and  violet  blue, 
And  on  the  winge*d  beams  of  light 
The  rainbow  paint  with  colors  bright. 

They  wake  to  life  in  sensuous  things — 
In  beast  that  howls,  in  bird  that  sings; 
They  warm  with  love  the  linnet's  nest, 
With  passion  thrill  the  human  breast. 

'T  is  spirit-life  that  takes  a  rest 
Within  the  sleeping  mineral's  breast; 
In  higher  form  more  brightly  glows 
In  lily  pale  and  blooming  rose; 
And  higher  still  its  voice  is  heard 
In  silvery  song  of  warbling  bird, 
And,  sweeter  still,  in  songs  of  love 
That  soothe  the  nestling  turtle-dove! 

The  earthly  form  is  but  a  tent 
In  which  a  passing  day  is  spent, 
As  spirit-life  in  form  ascends 
To  where  its  circling  journey  ends. 

The  form  is  fragile,  and  will  pass 
Like  morning  dew  on  summer  grass; 
But  still  the  spirit  will  remain. 
And  shine  through  higher  forms  again. 

The  clay  from  which  is  formed  the  shell 
In  which  the  lower  beings  dwell 
Is  just  the  same,  as  well  is  wrought, 
As  that  which  shelters  highest  thought; 
And  spark  that  lights  the  lowest  form 
That  dwells  'mid  tempest,  rack,  and  storm, 
Is  no  more  quenched  than  flames  that  light 
The  poet's  mind  with  visions  bright! 

Therefore,  my  friend,  you  see  that  I 
To  humblest  beings  don't  deny 
That  Nature  e'en  to  them  may  give 
A  higher  life  than  now  they  live. 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST.       215 

Now,  let  us  run  man's  history  o'er, 
And  on  its  blotted  pages  pore, 
And  see  what  is  recorded  there 
By  smiling  Hope,  and  dark  Despair, 
By  Love  and  Hate,  by  Joy  and  Grief, 
By  generous  hand  and  prowling  thief, 
By  bloated  wealth  and  starving  need, 
Ambition  proud  and  grasping  greed, 
And  all  the  passions  wild  that  tell 
That  man  but  makes  his  heaven  or  hell! 

Contented  is  the  lily  fair 
To  drink  the  dew  and  breathe  the  air; 
The  bird  and  beast  to  seek  their  food 
And  watch  with  care  their  infant  brood; 
They  peaceful  pass  their  lives  away, 
And  careless  end  the  closing  day; 
Unthinking  of  the  coming  morrow, 
No  care  from  it  they  ever  borrow, 
And,  seeking  not  to  find  the  cause, 
They  simply  follow  Nature's  laws. 
Yet  still  their  lives  will  not  be  lost, 
But  in  the  end  will  pay  the  cost — 
For  surely  they  recalled  will  be 
In  Nature's  vast  Eternity! 

Now,  man  is  Nature's  youngest  born; 
Is  still  yet  in  his  infant  morn, 
Still  in  the  helpless  nursing  zone, 
And  yet  can  hardly  walk  alone, 
But  stumbles  as  he  goes,  and  falls — 
And  like  a  child  he  cries  and  bawls, 
And  raves  and  rants  in  strife  and  battle 
When  he  has  lost  his  little  rattle. 

But  he  's  progressing  on  his  way; 
Though  yet  his  life  's  an  infant's  play, 
He  still  has  passed  the  simple  time 
When  passion  was,  or  could  be  crime — 
When  the  sole  guide  to  moral  sense 
Was  Nature's  simple  innocence. 


216      MATERIALIST  A.\n    SPIRITUALIST. 

He  backward  looks  o'er  voiceless  seas, 
Unswept  by  storm  or  whispering  breeze, 
And  lighted  by  no  beacon  flame 
To  show  the  road  by  which  he  came — 

But  onward  dawns  a  rosy  light 

On  landscapes  fair  and  pictures  bright, 

And  new-born  Hope,  with  rosy  hand, 

Points  upward  to  a  promised  land 

Where  Beauty  sports  on  flowery  wings, 

And  siren  songs  of  pleasure  sings; 

While  Fancy  points,  with  beaming  smile, 

To  fitful  lights  that  oft  beguile 

And  lead  the  thoughtless  child  astray 

From  Reason's  path  and  Wisdom's  way. 

As  child  is  taught  by  fingers  burned, 
So  wisdom's  by  experience  learned; 
And  man,  being  a  free  agent,  he 
Must  self-reliant  learn  to  be, 
That  he  may  steer  his  earthly  bark 
Through  tempests  wild  and  whirlpools  dark, 
And  safely  by  the  dangers  ride 
With  practiced  wisdom  for  his  guide. 

He  needs  must  pass  refining  fire, 
That  he  such  wisdom  may  acquire; 
And  this  is  not  an  unjust  rule 
Adopted  by  tyrannic  school, 
For  all  who  study  Nature  must 
At  once  admit  that  it  is  just; 
Since  by  this  rule  it  is  that  all 
Have  chance  to  stand  or  backward  fall; 
But  he  who  falls  is  not  thus  lost, 
Nor  is  condemned  in  hopeless  cost — 
But  for  a  time  is  backward  set, 
Another  chance  again  to  get, 
When  he  the  ordeal  then  may  pass 
And  come  out  foremost  in  the  class! 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST.      217 

The  grain  that  has  not  well  been  ground, 
Must  pass  another  grinding  round; 
It  must  be  ground  and  ground  again, 
'Till  not  the  slightest  fault  remain. 

All  forms  of  life,  where'er  they  be, 
On  any  earth,  in  any  sea, 
From  deepest  caves  of  darkest  night 
To  regions  of  sublimest  light, 
Must  needs  this  trying  journey  take 
Ere  they  the  vast  ascent  can  make 
From  Nature's  lowest  primal  cells 
To  where  Infinite  Being  wells. 

Some  stumble  on  the  winding  track; 
Some  stitches  drop,  and  must  go  back 
To  mend  the  work  that  they  have  done 
Ere  they  the  journey  further  run. 

Some,  led  estray  by  baleful  light, 
Far  wander  from  the  paths  of  right, 
Till,  to  their  bitter  cost,  they  find 
How  far  they  have  been  left  behind. 
And  some,  o'erwhelmed  by  low  desire, 
Sink  deeply  down  in  mud  and  mire, 
And  grope  amid  the  sullen  fogs 
That  hang  o'er  dismal,  filthy  bogs. 

While  he,  whose  pure,  aspiring  mind 
From  selfish  dross  has  been  refined, 
Will  lightly  trip  the  highway  o'er 
That  leads  to  the  celestial  shore! 

But  none  are  lost  upon  the  way, 
Nor  in  eternal  darkness  stay — 
For  long  although  the  journey  be, 
All  will  at  last  salvation  see; 
Since  flame  divine,  though  burning  low,. 
With  living  light  must  ever  glow, — 
'T  was  kindled  by  the  breath  divine, 
And  hence  its  beams  must  ever  shine. 


218      MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST. 

Stern  Justice  keeps  a  strict  account, 
Which  ever  shows  the  exact  amount 
Of  all  on  earth  that  man  may  do, 
His  debits  and  his  credits,  too. 

This  book  himself  he  must  inspect; 
All  errors  shown  he  must  correct; 
Of  sums  there  found  to  be  unpaid, 
Full  payment  must  by  him  be  made 
Ere  he  can  pass  the  magic  gate 
Which  entrance  gives  to  higher  state, 
With  credits  found  to  make  him  meet 
Among  the  pure  to  take  a  seat! 

And  thus,  my  friend,  I  think  I  've  shown 
That  all  on  earth  to  man  made  known  — 
By  all  that  Nature  clearly  teaches, 
And  all  that  Reason  loudly  preaches — 
By  whispering  breeze  and  tempest  loud, 
By  golden  mist  and  angry  cloud, 
By  bloom  that  tints  the  rose's  breast 
And  hues  that  paint  the  golden  West— 
By  beams  that  wake  the  morning  bright, 
And  gloom  that  veils  the  brow  of  night, 
By  Hope  that  in  man's  bosom  springs, 
And  by  the  cheerful  song  she  sings — 
By  all  his  yearnings,  si^hs,  and  fears, 
His  anguish  deep  and  bitter  tears, 
And  even  by  the  sad  mistakes 
That  on  life's  journey  oft  he  makes — 
'Tis  shown,  that  in  some  future  he 
Will  in  condition  higher  be. 

Now,  if  I  've  made  this  clear  to  you, 
And  you're  convinced  that  it  is  true, 
I  Ml  not  regret  the  little  time 
I  've  spent  in  knitting  up  this  rhyme; 
Nor  value  what  it  may  have  cost, 
Nor  ever  think  it  labor  lost. 


MATERIALIST  AND    SPIRITUALIST,      219 

Then,  friend!  do  not  despondent  be 
When  you  look  on  humanity, 
For  Nature  does  the  best  she  can 
With  what  she  has  to  make  the  man. 

MATERIALIST. 

If  what  you  teach,  my  friend,  be  true, 
I  surely  think,  and  so  must  you, 
That  most  now  journeying  on  the  way- 
Will  on  the  road  a  long  time  stay — 
For  few,  I  think,  there  can  be  found 
Who  have  as  yet  been  so  well  ground, 
Nor  will  they  ever  be  until 
They  many  times  have  passed  the  mill, 
As  to  be  fit,  as  I  can  see, 
For  such  refined  society — 
For  men  are  but  a  selfish  lot; 
Each  strives  to  keep  what  he  has  got, 
No  matter  how  it  has  been  gained 
Or  through  what  means  it  was  obtained, 
And  hardly  willing  is  to  let 
The  others  have  what  they  should  get. 

But  many  thanks  for  what  you  've  taught, 
And  for  the  ideas  I  have  caught, — 
For  they  to  me  indeed  are  new, 
And  I  can't  say  but  that  they  're  true, 
And  much  I  hope  that  they  to  me 
May  of  some  sterling  profit  be. 

San  Francisco,  1889. 


THE   ANCESTRY   OF   MAN: 

A    SOLILOQUY. 


DARWIN!  thou  reasonest  well,  else  whence  this  love 

Among  the  race  of  man  of  savage  things  ? 

Why  does  the  cruel  hunter  love  to  kill, 

E'en  though  his  greedy  maw  be  gorged  with  flesh 

Of  slaughtered  beast  and  bird  ? 

Why  does  the  angler, 

With  baited  hook,  beguile  the  harmless  fish, 
And  snatch  it  from  its  crystal  home  for  sport, 
When  not  impelled  by  hunger? 

Old  habits  tell,  man  can't  forget  the  time, 
In  the  dim  long  ago,  when  with  a  savage  claw 
He  seized  his  prey,  and  tore  with  fange"d  tooth 
His  victim  limb  from  limb,  and  drank  its  blood 
Ere  yet  its  quivering  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

The  stately  dame  and  dainty  damsel,  still 

Though  clothed  in  glossy  silks  and  snowy  lawns, 

In  dress  and  gait  give  unequivoc  signs 

Of  memories  of  the  lost  ancestral  tail. 

And  jewell'd  hand,  and  neck,  and  ear,  but  tell 

Of  savage  times,  ere  the  historic  fig-leaf 

Became  the  simple  cloak  of  modesty. 

The  dreamy  poet  still  delights  to  sing 

Of  running  brooks,  of  wood  and  meadow  green, 

Of  wintry  storms,  and  whispering  breezes  soft, 

Because  his  native  instincts  lead  him  back 

To  the  time  when  his  naked  ancestors 

Dwelt  in  caves  and  dens,  and  through  the  forest  roamed 

In  search  of  food,  climbing  the  lofty  tree, 

And,  aided  by  the  useful  caudal  member, 

Swung  from  branch  to  branch  to  pluck  the  ripened  fruit, 


THE   ANCESTRY   OF  MAN.  2 

Or  stretched  their  hairy  limbs  upon  the  earth, — 
Without  the  faintest  dream  that  Plato  e'er 
In  academic  groves  would  teach  his  high 
Philosophy,  or  Virgil  sing  beneath 
The  spreading  beech  his  pastoral  melodies. 

Therefore,  friend  Moses!  I  am  forced  to  think 

That  in  the  quaint  old  story  told  by  thee 

Of  a  fair  Eden  and  the  fall  of  man 

From  some  high  state  of  angel  innocence, 

There  must  be  some  mistake.     'T  is  very  pretty, 

And  well  wove,  but  of  too  thin  a  texture 

To  stand  the  test  of  rigid  criticism. 

For  if  man  e'er  lived  that  pure  and  simple  life 

Described  by  thee,  amid  the  bowers  of  Eden, 

Some  remnant  of  his  early  innocence 

Would  surely  yet  remain. 

Q.  E.  D. 

San  Francisco,  1878. 


THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE. 


YE  teachers,  all!  who  wish  to  see 
The  world  relieved  from  deviltry, 
And  from  the  reign  of  Vice  set  free, 

Be  still  and  hear, 
And  give  with  patience  now  to  me 

A  list'ning  ear. 

Since  Nature  works  by  fix^d  laws, 
Come,  for  a  season,  let  us  pause 
And  seek  to  find  the  cracks  and  flaws 

In  the  compound; 
Which  such  dark  scenes  of  sorrow  cause 

As  now  are  found. 

This  is  a  truth  that  all  must  know: 

From  fountains  pure  clear  streams  will  flow; 

On  healthy  plants  good  fruit  will  grow; 

And,  too,  we  see 
As  crow  old  cocks,  the  young  will  crow, 

And  like  will  be. 

\Ve  know  that  fruits  of  pleasant  taste 

With  little  trouble  can  be  traced 

To  bitter  things,  which  first  were  placed 

By  Nature's  hand 
In  forest  wild  and  desert  waste 

Of  every  land. 

The  flocks  and  herds  of  gentlest  breed 
Which  in  the  peaceful  meadows  feed, 
And  well  supply  demanding  need, 

By  culturing  care, 
Were  raised  from  wild  and  vicious  seed 

To  what  they  are. 


IMPROVEMENT  OF  THE  HUMAN  RACE.     223 

If  fruits  that  grow  in  field  and  grove, 
And  beasts  that  through  the  forests  rove, 
By  care  are  raised  to  higher  groove — 

Then  surely  can 
The  same  wise  thought  and  care  improve 

The  race  of  man! 

And  since  no  labor  do  we  spare 
In  culturing  apple,  peach,  and  pear, 
And  in  improving  horse  and  mare, 

We  surely  then 
Should  exercise  some  prudent  care 

In  rearing  men. 

If  we  will  look  on  plant  and  tree, 
And  bird,  and  beast  of  low  degree, 
And,  too,  upon  humanity, 

We  '11  surely  find 
That  as  the  sire  the  son  will  be 

Of  every  kind. 

From  common  clay  or  metal  base 
Ne'er  yet  was  wrought  a  costly  vase; 
Nor  e'er  did  artist  paint  a  face 

Or  picture  grand, 
Or  forms  of  classic  beauty  trace 

On  ocean  sand. 

This  truth  is  taught  in  every  school: 
That  Nature  works  by  fixe'd  rule; 
That  matter  gross  is  but  the  tool 

Through  which  is  made 
The  lofty  sage  or  drivelling  fool 

Of  every  grade. 

Man  can't  control  the  rolling  tide, 
Nor  turn  the  deadly  bolt  aside; 
Yet,  by  his  reason,  well  applied, 

He  still  may  steer — 
And  on  life's  current  safely  ride 

From  dangers  clear. 


224     IMPROVEMENT  (>/•'  THE  HUMAN  RACE. 

No  picture  e'er  by  Art  was  made 
Save  by  combining  light  and  shade, 
By  colors  mixed  in  proper  grade; 

Nor  structure  grand, 
Unless  the  chiselled  stone  was  laid 

By  skilful  hand. 

Nor  ever  yet,  since  time  began 
And  the  Almighty  fiat  ran: 
"  Now  let  us  make  the  race  of  man!  " 

Was  creature  made, 
Save  by  the  laws  and  by  the  plan 

By  Nature  laid. 

If  man  would  not  on  others  draw 
Such  vengeance  of  infracted  law 
That  they  shall  curse  the  hour  they  saw 

The  light  of  day- 
Then  let  him,  with  deep,  reverent  a\\v, 

Heed  well  his  way! 

And  let  his  soul  in  concord  be 
With  pictures  bright  of  purity, 
Such  as  the  gentlest  spirits  see — 

And  on  his  ear 
Let  fall  such  notes  of  melody 

As  angels  hear. 

And  let  Creation's  temple  be 
A  bower  of  love  and  harmony; 
From  all  unholy  passion  free, 

And  lewd  desire, 
That  fill  the  soul  with  deviltry 

And  hellish  fire. 

Then  things  of  beauty  may  be  born — 
As  bright  as  flowers  at  rosy  morn, 
Or  dewdrops  on  the  blooming  thorn; 

And  we  may  see 
The  sweetest  graces  tlu-n  adorn 

Humanity. 

S;ui  I-'iaiu  i-M  O,  1885. 


THE  REALIST  AND  THE  DREAMER. 


REALIST. 

WAKE  up,  old  man!  nor  waste  your  time 
In  thoughts  of  things  you  call  sublime, 
The  dreaming  fancies  that  you  nurse 
Will  put  no  money  in  your  purse — 
Life  is  an  active,  stirring  game, 
In  hot  pursuit  of  wealth  or  fame; 
A  struggling  strife  through  thick  and  thin, 
In  which  the  object  is  to  win. 

Behold  yon  solid  millionaire! 
He  builds  no  "  castles  in  the  air," 
His  grasping  mind  is  only  bent 
On  deeds  and  bonds,  and  cent  per  cent; 
A  worthy  churchman  is  he,  too, 
Who  in  the  temple  holds  a  pew; 
He  hires  a  priest  and  pays  him  well 
To  guard  him  'gainst  a  future  hell — 
To  him  he  gives  up  full  control, 
All  things  pertaining  to  his  soul, 
That  his  whole  time  on  earth  be  spent 
In  figuring  up  his  cent  per  cent. 

He  's  far  too  wise  to  waste  his  time 
In  idle  dreams  and  foolish  rhyme; 
He  gives  his  time  to  solid  things, 
From  which  substantial  profit  springs. 

DREAMER. 

My  practic  friend,  I  must  admit 
That  on  its  head  the  nail  you  've  hit, 
For  what  I  just  have  heard  from  you 
I  must  confess  is  strictly  true — 
But,  let  us  for  a  moment  stop 


226     THE  REALIST  AND  THE  DREAMER. 

And  take  a  glance  at  the  workshop 
I'mm  which  for  her  infinite  ends 
All  forms  of  being  Nature  sends: 

The  butterfly,  with  flowery  wings, 
The  warbling  bird  that  sweetly  sings, 
The  beasts  that  through  the  forests  roam 
Or  in  the  desert  find  a  home, — 
The  savage,  with  his  bow  and  arrow, 
The  farmer,  with  his  plough  and  harrow, 
The  artisan,  with  cunning  tools, 
The  scholar,  with  his  classic  rule>  — 

The  merchant,  with  his  costly  wares, 
The  banker,  with  his  heavy  cares, 
The  glutton,  with  his  appetite, 
And  dreamer,  with  his  second  sight,— 
Are  all  just  as  they  have  been  made, 
Of  every  form  and  every  grade — 
All  follow  out  their  nature's  bent, 
In  doing  which  they  are  content. 

The  well-fed  ox  and  fatten'd  swine 
While  sleeping  in  the  bright  sunshine 
Have  reached  the  highest  point  of  bliss, 
And  wish  no  better  world  than  this. 

The  miser,  who  himself  has  sold 
To  Mammon,  in  his  thirst  for  gold, 
By  his  long-hoarded  treasure  lies, 
And  't  is  his  heaven  ////  he  dies. 

The  student  trims  his  midnight  lamp 
In  garret  lone  and  cellar  damp, 
In  search  of  something,  which,  when  got, 
By  practic  rule,  will  profit  not. 

Ambition  seeks  to  write  its  name 
High  on  the  lofty  dome  of  Fame, 
And,  this  to  do,  by  day  and  night 
Will  mingle  in  the  fiercest  fight. 


THE  REALIST  AND   THE   DREAMER.     227 

The  man  of  purely  practic  sense, 

Who  measures  things  by  pounds  and  pence, 

Will  rack  his  brain  to  find  the  thing 

Which  will  material  profit  bring — 

While  the  wild  dreamer,  like  myself, 

All  thoughtless  in  the  search  of  pelf, 

Will  still  the  voice  of  carking  Care 

By  building  castles  in  the  air! 

And,  truth  to  tell,  I  must  confess, 

That  much  I  am  inclined  to  bless 

Kind  Nature,  who  to  me  has  given 

This  power  to  make  myself  a  heaven. 

If  I  can  wave  a  magic  wand, 
And  thus  create  a  fairy  land, 
Where  flowers  of  sweetest  fragrance  grow 
And  perfumed  breezes  ever  blow — 
Where  I  can  find  a  short  relief 
From  sorrow  dark  and  bitter  grief, — 
(Which  all  on  earth  must  sometimes  meet 
Who  tread  life's  paths  with  weary  feet) — 
It  is  a  goodly  gift  indeed 
That  gives  a  port  in  time  of  need, 
Where  no  wild  storms  in  anger  howl, 
Nor  muttering  thunders  ever  growl — 
And  though  the  picture  will  not  stay, 
But,  like  the  rainbow,  melts  away, 
Whene'er  I  will,  the  magic  wand 
Creates  again  the  fairy  land! 

Therefore,  my  friend,  I  'm  well  content 

That  I  've  much  time  in  dreaming  spent; 

For  though  it  has  no  money  made, 

It  surely  has  a  profit  paid. 

And  if,  when  we  with  earth  have  done, 

When  all  life's  ebbing  sands  have  run, 

When  marble  palace  is  but  dust, 

And  wealth  's  consumed  by  moth  and  rust, 

These  airy  dreams  are  found  to  be 

In  very  truth  reality, — 


228     THE  REALIST  AND  THE  DREAMER. 

\Vho  then,  when  this  wild  race  is  run, 
Will  have  the  highest  prizes  won  ? 

So  then,  my  friend,  from  day  to  day 
I  '11  dream  my  earthly  life  away, 
While  you,  perchance  more  wise  than  I, 
May  go  on  digging  till  you  die. 

San  Francisco,  1886. 


GOD    IS    LOVE! 

THE    THEOLOGIAN    AND    THE    FREETHINKER. 


THEOLOGIAN. 

HOLD,  sinful  man!  do  you  not  dread 
God's  holy  vengeance  on  your  head 
For  making  such  a  wicked  speech 
And  for  the  doctrine  that  you  teach  ? 
Have  you  no  reverence  for  the  Church, 
Whose  ministers  you  would  besmirch, 
By  harshly  judging  what  they  do 
And  bringing  all  their  faults  to  view? 
Do  you  not  know  that  you  are  lost 
And  can  be  saved  but  at  the  cost 
Of  sinless  blood,  which  has  been  shed 
By  Him  who  has  for  sinners  bled? 
That,  by  the  guilt  of  Adam's  sin 
You  have  from  birth  condemned  been, 
And  justly  might  be  doomed  to  dwell 
Forever  in  a  burning  hell  ? 
And  that,  unless  your  ways  you  mend, 
God's  burning  wrath  will  thither  send 
Your  wicked  soul,  where  it  shall  be 
Most  surely  damned  eternally  ? 

FREETHINKER. 

Your  lecture,  sir,  is  somewhat  rough, — 
Your  doctrine,  too,  a  little  tough, — 
And  if  with  it  you  now  are  through, 
Come  listen,  while  I  preach  to  you: 

Some  three  score  years  and  ten  have  passed 
(As  I  am  told)  since  I  was  cast 
By  Nature's  laws  and  natural  birth 
Upon  this  beauteous,  smiling  earth. 


230  GOD    IS    LOT/:.' 

I  cannot  comprehend  the  Cause 
Of  Nature's  never-changing  l.i\\> 
Which  acted  in  the  drama  played 
When  I  a  son  of  earth  was  made — 
But  this  I  know:  that  by  this  Canst- 
I  ne'er  in  aught  consulted  was; 
Hence  cannot  be,  by  law  or  fact, 
Made  party  to  the  little  act, 
Which  me  has  made,  as  I  am  now, 
With  Reason's  light  upon  my  brow, 
A  conscious  being,  with  a  mind 
That  bids  me  seek  if  I  would  find 
Bright  Truth;  with  Wisdom  for  my  guide, 
And  by  whose  laws  I  must  abide. 

The  Truth  I  've  sought  both  day  and  night, 

By  Nature's  laws  and  Reason's  light, 

And,  as  with  patience  I  have  sought, 

I  here  and  there  have  glimpses  caught 

Of  beaming  rays  that  ever  shine 

On  Nature's  book  of  law  divine! 

But  not  in  creed,  or  solemn  rite, 

Have  I  e'er  caught  one  ray  of  light 

In  all  my  life,  from  early  youth, 

That  Reason  taught  me  was  the  Truth — 

But  as  I  've  read,  from  youth  to  age, 

Great  Nature's  book  on  every  page, 

I  've  found  that  Wisdom's  hand  divine 

Has  pictured  Love  in  every  line! 

I  see  its  sweet  face 

In  the  bright,  rosy  morn, 
When  the  shadows  have  passed 

And  the  young  day  is  born— 
In  the  soft,  golden  cloud 

That  hangs  in  the  West, 
When  the  sun  has  gone  down 

And  the  day  sinks  to  rest! 


GOD    IS    LOVE!  231 

In  the  bright,  azure  sky, 

In  sunbeam  and  shower, 
In  the  hue  of  the  leaf 

And  bloom  of  the  flower; 
In  the  dewdrop  that  sleeps 

On  the  lily's  pale  leaf; 
In  the  teardrop  that  hangs 

On  the  eyelids  of  Grief. 

I  hear  its  sweet  voice 

In  the  song  of  the  bird; 
In  the  sigh  of  the  breeze 

Its  music  is  heard — 
Nor  is  the  bright  lightning 

That  falls  from  the  sky 
A  glance  of  red  wrath 

From  a  demon's  fierce  eye— 
And  the  thunder's  loud  voice 

In  the  lightning's  red  path 
Speaks  not  to  the  earth 

In  anger  and  wrath; 
And  the  Angel  of  Death 

May  bear  in  his  hand 
A  message  of  love 

From  some  happy  land, 
Where  birds  ever  sing 

And  flowers  ever  bloom, 
Unchilled  by  the  shadows 

That  hang  o'er  the  tomb; 
Where  sorrows  that  rend 

The  bosom  on  earth 
Are  forgot  by  the  Soul 

In  the  land  of  its  birth! 

These  tell  of  no  law 

That  calls  to  be  spilt 
The  blood  of  the  sinless 

For  another  one's  guilt ; 
But  that  each  for  himself, 

When  his  life  it  has  run, 


232  GOD    IS    LOVE! 

To  Justice  must  answer 
For  what  he  has  done. 


Therefore,  my  friend,  as  you  may  see, 

Your  savage  creed  is  not  for  me; 

No  sinless  blood  would  I  have  shed 

To  shift  the  guilt  from  off  my  head— 

If  wrong  to  others  I  have  done, 

I  must  myself  the  crime  atone; 

No  sacrifice  that  others  make 

From  off  my  soul  the  guilt  can  take — 

My  cheek  would  blush  with  burning  shame 

If  I  should  through  another's  name 

Gain  entrance  to  society 

Where  I  unfitted  was  to  be! 

But  surely  say  I  nothing  can 
Against  the  gentle  Son  of  Man; 
His  moral  teachings  (though  not  new) 
Were  like  the  Light,  divinely  true; 
He  died,  'tis  true;  but,  as  I  see, 
His  death  had  nought  to  do  with  me. 

So,  thus  you  see,  my  Christian  friend, 
I  am  not  likely  much  to  mend 
My  wicked  ways,  nor  give  much  heed 
To  what  you  call  your  Holy  Creed! 

Where  I  may  land,  I  do  not  know, 
When  I  am  called  from  earth  to  go — 
But  this,  I  know:  wherever  it  be, 
It  will  be  all  right  well  with  me; 
For  sure  I  am,  that  I  shall  find 
Myself  with  kindred,  and  with  kind, 
And  that,  because  of  what  I  've  done, 
Must  take  the  lot  that  I  have  won. 

San  Francisco,  1885. 


GOOD   AND   EVIL. 

THE    PRIEST    AND    THE    PHILOSOPHER. 


PRIEST. 

I  HAVE  been  told,  my  learned  sir, 

That  you  are  a  philosopher, 

And  boldly  claim  (I  'm  told)  that  you 

Can  run  life's  stormy  journey  through, 

And  o'er  its  angry  billows  ride 

And  safely  land  on  t'  other  side, 

With  nothing  more  to  keep  you  right 

Than  Nature's  laws  and  Reason's  light — 

That  you  reject  and  do  not  heed 

What 's  taught  by  every  Christian  creed: 

That  man  's  a  sinner,  doomed  and  lost, 

And  can  be  saved  but  at  the  cost 

Of  blood  by  sinless  victim  shed 

To  take  the  curse  from  off  his  head! 

Deny  a  God  of  vengeful  ire, 

And  devil  clothed  in  hellish  fire — 

And,  too,  deny  that  man  e'er  fell 

From  that  high  state  where  angels  dwell, 

By  act  transgressive,  and  that  he 

Thereby  incurred  the  penalty 

Of  being  doomed  when  life  has  passed 

To  be  in  outer  darkness  cast, 

And  there  condemned  to  weep  and  wail 

'Mid  fiery  wrath  and  scorching  hail ! 

PHILOSOPHER. 

My  cleric  friend,  indeed  'tis  true 
That  I  am  steering  my  canoe 
Across  the  deep,  as  best  I  can, 
Just  as  becomes  a  reasoning  man. 


234  GOOD    AM)     A/7/.. 

I  ne'er  the  trip  have  made  before, 
Nor  e'er  the  road  have  travelled  o'er; 
But,  though  the  path  be  somewhat  blind, 
The  proper  course  I  try  to  find. 

Therefore,  my  friend,  if  you  can  show 
The  road  direct  for  me  to  go, 
And  that  my  present  steering-way 
Is  leading  me  from  truth  astray, — 
I  will  at  once  my  "topsails  back," 
And  try  it  on  another  tack; 
So  give  me,  if  you  can,  a  guide 
To  pilot  me  across  the  tide! 

PRIEST. 

The  way  so  plain  is  made  by  mark, 
That  you  can  find  it  in  the  dark; 
But,  first  of  all,  you  must  believe 
That  you  your  mother  did  conceive 
In  that  dark  guilt  and  mortal  sin 
In  which  you  all  your  life  have  been; 
That  from  this  net  in  which  you  're  tangled, 
And  which  your  innocence  has  strangled, 
You  can  alone  redeemed  be 
By  Him  who  shed  His  blood  for  thee. 

All  this  is  taught  in  Sacred  Writ, 
And  is  explained  by  those  who  sit 
In  holy  places,  to  expound 
The  sacred  doctrines  therein  found. 

PHILOSOPHER. 

I  fve  read  your  Bible  to  the  end; 
Have  looked  into  the  ancient  Zend; 
Have  wisdom  in  the  Vedas  sought, 
And  studied,  too,  what  Buddha  taught; 
Have  read  the  thoughts  of  every  age — 
Of  ancient  seer  and  modern  sage — 
And  from  them  learned  that  in  all  time 
Great  minds  have  published  truths  sublime; 


GOOD    AND     EVIL.  235 

But  in  them  all  have  failed  to  find 
Aught  that  could  satisfy  my  mind 
That  what  their  highest  wisdom  taught 
Was  all  my  yearning  spirit  sought. 

I  've  caught  the  sunbeam  in  its  flight, 
And  watched  the  beaming  stars  by  night; 

I  've  looked  upon  the  grazing  herd, 
And  listened  to  the  warbling  bird; 

I  've  looked  upon  the  blooming  flower 
When  bathed  in  dew  or  crystal  shower; 

I  've  watched  the  infant  in  its  rest, 

Upon  its  mother's  loving  breast, 

And  deep  within  my  soul  I  've  found 

Far-reaching  thoughts  that  ne'er  were  bound 

By  any  creed,  and  never  can 

Be  chained  by  power  of  mortal  man— 

And  these  have  taught  me  that  your  creed 

Can  never  satisfy  my  need ; 

That  while  it  may  suffice  for  you, 

For  me  it  never  can  be  true. 


PRIEST. 

If  you  reject  the  written  Word, 
And  disregard  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord" 
And  set  aside  the  rules  of  faith 
Which  in  plain  language  sternly  saith : 
He  that  believeth  not  shall  be 
Most  surely  damned  eternally" 
Then,  tell  me  now,  if  this  you  can, 
By  what  secure  and  certain  plan 
Do  you  expect  or  hope  to  be 
Released  from  such  dark  penalty  ? 

Are  you  so  vain  and  foolish,  too, 

So  bold  and  arrogant,  that  you 

Will  dare  to  doubt  what  God  has  wrought 

And  what  most  holy  men  have  taught  ? 


236  GOOD    AND    EVIL. 

PHILOSOPHER. 

Blind  faith  I  do  not  understand, 

Nor  unchained  thought  can  I  command; 

My  faith  from  clear  conviction  springs, 
And  evidence  conviction  brings; 

He  for  himself  who  cannot  think, 
Most  likely  will  to  nothing  sink; 

Who  dare  not,  is  beneath  contempt, 
And  should  from  manhood  be  exempt. 

As  to  the  sailing-chart  which  I 
Am  shaping  now  my  courses  by, 
If  you  will  calmly  hear  me  through, 
I  Ml  try  to  make  it  plain  to  you, — 
And  if  you  're  honest  you  will  see 
That  'tis  the  only  chart  for  me; 
That  I  must  sail  its  courses  still- 
Let  it  conduct  me  where  it  will — 
E'en  though  it  lead  me  to  that  hell 
Where  poor,  misguided  sinners  dwell. 

Come,  let  us  now  in  thought  go  back 
To  ages  dark  of  storm  and  rack, 
Ere  oak  was  seen  or  poplar  grew, 
Or  flower  was  wet  with  morning  dew: 

No  man  upon  this  rolling  earth 
At  that  dark  time  had  had  a  birth, 
Nor  did  he  come  until  the  laws 
For  \\\s  production  found  a  cause ; 
And  when  he  came,  he  was  so  low 
In  being  as  to  hardly  know 
That  he  had  wants  to  be  supplied, 
Which  clamored  loud  till  satisfied. 

What  comfort  gave  him  was  benign^ 
And  that  which  gave  him  pain,  malign; 


GOOD    AND    EVIL.  237 

And  from  this  principle  of  good 
Were  born  man's  early  views  of  God ; 
While  that  which  always  brought  him  evil, 
Produced  its  opposite — the  devil. 

And  these  he  *ver  sought  to  please, 
Good-will  to  gain,  or  wrath  appease, 
By  sacrifice,  in  offerings  made 
Of  every  kind  and  every  grade; 
Of  early  fruits,  as  made  by  Cain, 
And  Abel,  of  his  lambkins  slain. 

And  in  those  ages  thus  began 
All  bloody  offerings  made  by  man — 
From  fetich  rite  of  lowest  class 
To  solemn  form  of  highest  Mass — 
Some  curse  from  off  his  soul  to  take, 
Or  for  some  crime  atonement  make. 

Thus,  too,  began  the  priestly  trade, 

Which  in  all  ages  man  has  made 

A  slave  to  superstition's  rule 

And  of  designing  men  a  tool, 

From  time  when  priest  of  Moloch  stood 

By  altar  stained  with  human  blood, 

To  that  of  him  who  wears  the  crown 

To  him  by  Peter  handed  down, 

And  still  proclaims  himself  to  be 

Vicegerent  of  the  Deity. 

In  time  this  Nature-worship  grew 
In  higher  forms  to  something  new: 

In  ancient  creed,  by  Median  laws, 
The  lord  of  Good  bright  Ormazd  was, 
While  Ahriman,  with  devilish  thought, 
Destroyed  the  good  that  Ormazd  wrought. 

And  this  fierce  war  they  ever  waged, 
And  battle  wild  between  them  raged — 
And  thus  has  trouble  e'er  been  found 
Upon  the  earth,  their  battle-ground. 


238  COOn    sL\7>    EVIL. 

By  Vedic  hymns,  in  Buddhic  schools, 
Creative  lord,  great  Brahma  rules; 
While  Shiva,  the  destroyer,  mows 
Down  all  the  grass  that  Brahma  sows. 

And,  too,  the  classic  ages  had 

Their  spirits  good  and  demons  bad — 

Their  gods  celestial  and  infernal, 

Their  regions  dark  and  realms  supernal, 

Where  spirits  dwelt  'mid  Stygian  gloom, 

Or  roamed  'mid  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom. 

And,  coming  down  to  modern  times, 
We  find  that  in  all  Christian  climes 
The  same  fierce  battle  rages  still 
Between  the  good  and  so-called  ill. 

That  in  all  lands  that  are  called  civil 
Two  kingdoms  are  of  Good  and  Evil ; 
Of  one  the  Lord  the  Ruler  is, 
While  Beelzebub  takes  care  of  his. 

And  this  fierce  battle  still  will  rage 
Until  there  come  a  living  age 
When  man  in  Nature's  laws  shall  be 
So  well  and  clearly  taught  that  he 
Will  need  no  guide  to  keep  him  right 
Save  Reason's  voice  and  Wisdom's  light. 

Then  the  dark  rule  of  Ahriman 
With  discord  wild  no  longer  can 
Disturb  the  peaceful  vales  of  earth 
And  strangle  Beauty  at  its  birth; 
But  Ormazd  bright  will  rule  the  land 
With  judgment  wise,  and  even  hand. 

PRIEST. 

From  all  that  you  have  said  to  me, 
An  atheist  you  I  take  to  be; 
That  you  deny  the  Infinite  Cause, 
Which  ever  is  and  ever  was; 


GOOD    AND    EVIL.  239 

Reject  all  sacred  revelations 
Which  have  been  giv'n  favored  nations, 
And  contempt  cast  and  ridicule 
Upon  the  Sacerdotal  School. 

PHILOSOPHER. 

Oh,  no;  you  very  much  mistake 
If  me  you  for  an  atheist  take; 

Back  from  the  days  of  early  youth 
I  've  been  in  honest  search  of  truth; 
Books  have  I  read  of  ancient  days, 
Have  studied  those  of  modern  ways; 
And  much  have  found  of  what  is  true 
In  writings  old  and  volumes  new; 
But  much  in  them  that  I  have  found 
Must  be  condemned  by  reason  sound. 

One  book  there  is  which  ever  speaks 
The  ivords  of  truth  to  him  who  seeks 
For  wisdom  in  great  Nature's  Jaws 
In  tracing  from  Effect  the  Cause  : 

This  book  is  writ  in  letters  bright, 
And  can  be  read  by  day  or  night 
By  all  who  look  with  searching  eyes 
Upon  the  earth,  or  to  the  skies! 

'T  is  writ  upon  the  blooming  rose, 
In  summer  dew  and  Arctic  snows, 
And  on  the  rolling  orbs  of  light 
That  gem  the  ebon  brow  of  night! 

'T  is  read  upon  the  silent  bier, 

In  infant's  smile  and  mother's  tear; 

Its  truthful  language,  too,  is  heard 
In  voice  of  storm  and  song  of  bird; 

In  shout  of  joy,  in  sorrow's  sigh, 
And  wailing  voice  of  those  who  die; 


240  GOOD    AND    El'IL. 

In  the  deep  yearnings  of  the  mind 
Some  brighter  world  than  this  to  find. 
Where  earth's  discordant  storms  shall  cease 
And  harmony  shall  reign  in  peace. 

All  that  this  book  so  clearly  teaches, 
And  all  that  Nature  loudly  preaches, 
Tell  of  a  Great  Infinite  Cause 
Which  all  things  rule  by  changeless  laws; 
Of  which  First  Cause  I  nothing  know, 
Save  from  effects  which  from  it  flow. 

But  this  I  know:  that  'tis  divine, 

And  that  in   spirit 't  is  benign; 

That  there  's  no  Power  or  Prince  of  Evil, 

Which  superstition  calls  the  devil. 

Nor  do  I  dare  to  ridicule 

Aught  that  is  taught  by  any  school 

That  leads  the  searching  mind  to  see 

The  goodness  of  the  Deity; 

But  ever  in  my  soul  revere 

Aught  that  may  stay  a  falling  tear, 

No  matter  by  what  creed  'tis  done, 

Or  from  whose  hand  the  blessing's  won,— 

And  ever  will  I  bow  the  knee 

Before  the  shrine  of  Charity; 

But  never  will  my  bitterest  hate 

For  selfish  tyranny  abate. 

PRIEST. 

If  thus  you  think  there  is  no  devil, 
How  then  account  for  what  is  evil  ? 

You  must  admit  that  there  is  sin; 
Then  God  must  have  its  author  been — 
Since  He  controls  and  rules  all  things, 
There  nothing  is  but  from  Him  springs. 

So  now,  my  friend,  if  you  are  fair, 
You  must  confess  I  've  got  you  where 


GOOD    AND    EVIL.  241 

You  must  admit  that  there  's  a  devil, 
Or  else  that  God  created  evil! 

PHILOSOPHER. 

Now,  if  you  '11  keep  your  judgment  level, 
I  think  I  '11  prove  there  is  no  devil 
Or  principle  of  hellish  ill 
Moved  by  an  independent  will: 

Disturbance  of  electric  laws, 

Of  storm  and  tempest  is  the  cause; 

The  lightning  rends  the  gnarled  oak 
And  slays  the  shepherd  by  its  stroke; 

The  rain  descends,  and  leaf  and  flower 
Are  watered  by  the  crystal  shower; 

The  fields  are  bright,  the  meadows  green, 
And  smiles  on  Nature's  face  are  seen! 

As  jewels  bright  are  found  to  be 
In  settings  of  adversity, 

As  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  we  find 
Is  with  the  brightest  silver  lined, 

As  life  from  death  in  beauty  springs, 
And  seeming  evil  blessing  brings,— 

So  howling  storms  o'er  earth  that  sweep 
And  rouse  to  wrath  the  rolling  deep, 
Upon  their  wings  no  vengeance  bear, 
But  healthful  make  the  poisoned  air. 

The  golden  clouds  that  softly  rest 
Upon  the  evening's  rosy  breast 
Have  surged  and  boiled  in  rolling  rack, 
'Mid  lightnings  fierce  and  tempests  black. 

In  all  the  realms  of  changing  form 
There  must  be  contrast — calm  and  storm  ; 
But  from  the  night  comes  forth  the  morn, 
And  beauty  from  decay  is  born! 


242  GOOn     .i.\7>     ll'IL. 

The  stars  that  shine  so  bright  at  night 
Are  lost  to  view  in  morning  light; 
And  colors  which  are  bright  by  day, 
All  fade  and  die  in  twilight  gray. 

Deep  down  in  Nature's  lowest  caves 
The  lightnings  flash  and  tempest  raves, 
But  they  obey  imperious  laws 
Which  spring  from  an  harmonious  cause, 
And  the  wild  discord  that  they  make 
Are  but  their  struggles  fierce  to  take 
A  higher  form,  that  they  may  be 
In  more  accordant  harmony. 

From  law  infracted,  discord  springs; 
While  law  obeyed,  sweet  concord  brings 

The  tuneful  harp,  when  rudely  smote, 
Will  give  a  harsh,  discordant  note; 

Sweet  concord  is  where  angels  dwell, 
But  discord  ever  makes  a  hell! 

No  other  heaven  or  hell  I  know 
To  which  the  good  and  evil  go. 

PRIEST. 

From  what  you  say,  I  fear  you  've  been. 
So  hardened  in  the  ways  of  sin, 
And  up  to  unbelief  so  given 
That  you  can  never  merit  heaven. 

But  still  for  all,  if  you  will  pray 
For  living  faith,  you  nathless  may 
At  last  be  led  the  truth  to  see, 
And  thus  from  bondage  be  set  free! 

But  you  must  first  crush  out  all  pride, 
And  reason,  too,  must  lay  aside, 
And  naked  come  as  one  condemned, 
In  fetters  bound,  in  prison  hemmed — 
Who  has  no  claim  to  pardoned  be 
In  time  or  in  eternity. 


GOOD    AND    EVIL,  243 

If  you  '11  do  this,  and  will  take  heed 
To  what  is  taught  in  Holy  Creed, 
I  think  you  may  (but  cannot  tell) 
Escape  a  fearful — future  hell! 

PHILOSOPHER. 

My  reverend  sir,  I  've  heard  you  through, 

And  truly  I  'm  obliged  to  you; 

But  the  positions  that  you  take, 

And  the  conditions  that  you  make, 

Not  one  grain  easier  are  for  me 

Than  two  and  two  can  make  but  three. 

And,  furthermore,  I  would  not  be 
At  home  among  society 
Of  those  who  had  so  slavish  been 
That  they  might  be  received  therein, 
As  eyes  to  shut  to  Reason's  light 
In  seeking  for  the  "  Path  of  Right." 

Oh,  no;  for  still,  where'er  I  be, 
My  thought  immortal  must  be  free  ! 

So  you  your  course  can  still  pursue, 
If  'tis  the  best,  you  think,  for  you — 

While  I,  with  independent  will, 
Will  travel  on  my  journey  still 
Across  life's  dark,  tempestuous  tide, 
With  my  best  reason  for  my  guide; 
And  will  with  resignation  take 
Such  lot  as  for  myself  I  make. 


San  Francisco,  1890. 


AN    APOLOGY    FOR    THE    DEVIL 


You  have,  old  Smokey,  been  abused, 
And  by  mankind  (I  think)  misused, 
By  gospel  clubs  been  beat  and  bruised 

And  scapegoat  made; 
Of  wicked  games  have  been  accused 

Which  you  ne'er  played. 

'Tis  charged  that,  when  the  earth  was  new, 
Of  human  dwellers  there  were  two, 
That  /hen,  with  devilish  cunning,  you 

A  trap  did  set, 
By  which  those  silly  ones  you  drew 

Into  your  net! 

In  every  wicked  plot  that 's  been 
Concocted  'mong  the  human  kin 
In  this  sad  world  of  crime  and  sin 

In  times  gone  by, 
'Tis  charged  you've  had  a  finger  in 

The  devilish  pie— 

Since  first  the  cunning  net  you  wrought 
Which  our  first  parents  deftly  caught 
And  them  to  dark  perdition  brought, 

Down  to  this  time, — 
When  honors  high  by  gold  are  bought 

In  every  clime! 

You  're  charged  with  blood  in  battle  spilled; 
With  death  of  those  by  murder  killed; 
Of  those  who  died  when  Nature  willed 

By  her  own  laws; 

Of  every  mortal  grave  that 's  filled, 
';r  the  cause. 


AN    APOLOGY   FOR    THE    DEVIL.        245 

Of  all  the  crime  that  e'er  was  done; 
Of  every  wicked  rig  that 's  run 
Beneath  the  ever-shining  sun — 

You  're  charged  to  be 
The  all-promoting  Wicked  One 

Who  raised  the  spree! 

I  surely  think  that  'tis  unfair 

That  you  are  made  the  blame  to  bear 

Of  all  the  crimes  that  rampant  are 

On  every  hand, 
Which  sorrow  bring  and  dark  despair 

In  every  land. 

For,  truth  to  tell,  it  seems  to  me 
That  every  mortal  held  should  be 
For  all  the  wicked  acts  which  he 

Himself  may  do; 
That  he  should  blush  if  them  he  'd  see 

All  laid  to  you. 

I  trust,  friend  Sooty,  that  you  may 
With  kindness  take  the  words  I  say, 
Nor  think  that  /  but  wish  to  play 

A  game  to  make 
Fair  weather  for  myself  some  day 

And  win  a  stake! 

And  trusting,  too,  that,  by  and  by, 
When  man  shall  cease  to  thieve  and  lie, 
And  crime  and  wrong  from  earth  shall  fly — 

That  you  '11  find  peace; 
That  then  this  devilish  hue  and  cry 

'Gainst  you  will  cease. 

San  Francisco,  September  24,  1893. 


THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN. 


IF  one  will  ever  damned  be 
Beyond  remede,  eternally— 
It  surely  will  be  he  or  she 

Who  lives  alone 
For  selfish  ends,  and  Charity 

Has  never  known. 

The  wretch  who  in  a  prison  lies, 
Who  in  a  dungeon  hopeless  sighs, 
And  by  the  hangman  justly  dies, 

Redeemed  may  be, — 
And,  in  some  place  beyond  the  skies, 

Salvation  see! 

But  he  who  lives  for  self  alone — 

Whose  heart  is  like  the  insensate  stone — 

Who  one  kind  thought  has  never  known— 

When  life  has  passed 
Will,  'mid  disgusting  offals  thrown, 

Aside  be  cast — 

To  pass  again  the  grinding  mill, 
And  thus  be  cleansed  from  filth,  until 
He  fitted  is  some  place  to  fill 

In  that  deep  plan 
Which  Nature  laid  and  works  by  still 

To  make  a  man. 

San  Francisco,  1887. 


A    CHAT    WITH    HORATIO. 

SOME    PHILOSOPHIC    ADVICE    ABOUT    HORNETS. 


HORATIO,  friend!  there  sure  must  be 
Some  higher  court  of  equity 
Than  e'er  is  found  in  earthly  lands, 
Where  scales  are  held  by  mortal  hands — 
Since  things  on  earth  are  so  much  mixed 
That,  by  no  means  can  they  be  fixed 
In  any  way  to  harmonize 
With  what  is  just  in  Reason's  eyes. 

When  I  have  done  some  generous  act — 
(Have  sacrificed  myself,  in  fact), 
With  kind  intent,  and  single  eye, 
I  've  found  at  last  that  oft  thereby — 
Although  I  've  done  my  very  best — 
I  've  waked  a  devilish  hornets'  nest! 
And  have  been  stung  till  I  was  blind, 
For  actions  which  I  thought  were  kind. 

Now,  this,  (as  think  I  surely  must), 
Is  cruel,  hard,  and  most  unjust; 
Since  kindness  should,  it  seems  to  me, 
In  other  coin  rewarded  be. 

HORATIO. 

The  student  of  the  selfish  school, 
Who  works  alone  by  square  and  rule 
And  ne'er  in  business  makes  mistakes, 
Nor  generous  chances  ever  takes — 
Who  well  observes  the  statute  laws, 
(But  acts  alone  from  selfish  cause), 
Who,  in  his  dealings  and  his  ways, 
Will  nothing  do  unless  it  pays, — 


248  A    CHAT    WITH    HORATIO. 

In  Mammon's  court,  by  practic  eyes, 
Is  looked  upon  as  wondrous  wisr! 
But,  like  the  ice  of  polar  seas, 
He 's  only  fit  to  chill  and  freeze — 
While  he  who  acts  from  impulse  good, 
(Without  considering  why  he  should), 
Will  often  find  for  what  he  's  done 
That  he  a  hornet's  sting  has  won; 
As  he  who  plucks  a  fragrant  rose 
Oft  feels  the  thorn  that  by  it  grows! 
But  prick  of  thorn  or  hornet's  sting 
At  worst  is  but  a  harmless  thing, 
And  never  leaves  (as  will  be  found) 
A  lasting  scar  or  mortal  wound. 

But  he  who  gets  his  fingers  burned, 

Will  thereby  have  some  wisdom  learned 

Which  him  will  teach  to  have  a  care, 

Since  thorns  are  found  where  roses  are! 

And,  too,  to  let  the  hornets  rest, 

And  not  disturb  them  in  their  nest. 

He,  too,  may  find  that  he  at  last 

Will  thankful  be  for  sufferings  past, 

Which  sprang  from  deeds  by  which  he  thought 

Some  good  to  others  to  have  wrought. 

Then  still  pursue  the  path  you  've  run, 
Still  acting  as  you  've  ever  done, 
And  ne'er  regret  that  you  've  been  stung 
And  sometimes  had  your  withers  wrung; 
Since  sufferings  past  are  soon  forgot, 
(Which  with  remorse  are  mingled  not), 
And  will  the  brightest  records  be 
Within  the  book  of  memory. 

San  Francisco,  September  17,  1893. 


SUFFERING. 


I  CARE  not  at  all 

For  the  drops  of  gall 
That  are  mixed  in  the  goblet  of  life; 

The  scratches  and  pricks, 

The  cuffs  and  the  kicks 
That  I  get  in  the  struggle  and  strife. 

The  wild  dreams  of  night, 

Although  they  affright 
And  fill  the  mind  with  fear  and  dismay, 

Before  the  bright  morn, 

When  young  day  is  born, 
Fly  quickly  and  forever  away! 

So  the  wormwood  pills, 

And  the  bitter  ills, 
Which  on  the  way  may  fall  to  my  lot, 

I  take  with  good  grace, 

Nor  make  a  wry  face, 
Since  the  bitter  is  quickly  forgot. 

So  long  as  remorse 

My  mind  don't  unhorse, 
I  '11  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind! 

The  kicks  and  the  bumps, 

The  rubs  and  the  thumps 
I  '11  leave  in  the  distance  behind. 

If  shadow  and  cloud 

My  spirit  enshroud, 
I  know  but  awhile  they  will  last; 

So,  halting  in  gait, 

With  patience  I  wait 
Till  the  gloom  and  the  shadow  have  passed. 


250  SUFFERING. 

And  this  is  the  why, 

Though  the  white  snows  lie 
On  my  bald  and  storm-beaten  head, 

That  the  fire  burns  bright 

And  the  flame  gives  light, 
Though  the  strength  of  my  manhood  has  fled. 

San  Francisco,  December,  1889. 


LAY   ON,    MACDUFF." 


FOR  fleeting  years,  (almost  four  score), 
I  've  heard  the  angry  breakers  roar 
Upon  a  rock-bound,  leeward  shore, 

But  still  have  stood 
Nor  in  despair  gone  down  before 

The  angry  flood. 

And,  though  the  weather  still  is  rough, 
And  though  the  voyage  still  is  tough, 
I  will  not  yet  cry  out  "Enough!" 

But  battle  still, 
Relying  on  my  mental  stuff 

And  moral  will. 

So  let  the  weather  still  be  foul, 
And  let  the  angry  tempest  howl, 
And  let  the  muttering  thunders  growl 

And  lightnings  fly — 
The  darkest  gloom  of  Fortune's  scowl 

I  '11  still  defy! 

Though  all  the  devilish  imps  of  hell, 
And  all  the  demons  there  that  dwell, 
Conspire  'gainst  me  with  purpose  fell 

To  work  my  fall — 
I  will,  (as  I  am  armed  so  well), 

Defy  them  all ! 

San  Francisco,  September  10,  1893. 


COMPENSATION. 


DESPAIR  not,  Mortal,  'mid  the  tempests  of  earth, 

Nor  let  thy  scourged  spirit  be  sad; 
But  wipe  from  thy  cheek  the  fast-falling  tears 

And  learn  to  be  hopeful  and  glad! 

For  as  sure  as  the  day  will  follow  the  night, 

And  the  spring  when  the  winter  is  o'er, 
The  time  will  soon  come  when  thy  sufferings  shall  cease 

And  thy  spirit  will  sorrow  no  more. 

There  's  a  law  that  directs  and  governs  all  being — 
The  high,  the  low,  the  small,  and  the  great: 

That  as  ye  can  suffer,  so  may  ye  enjoy," 
And  this  will  thy  grief  compensate. 

The  bright,  polished  blade  in  an  hour  will  tarnish 

And  soon  be  consumed  by  the  rust, 
While  the  dull,  sullen  lead,  unchanging,  endures 

When  the  steel  has  crumbled  to  dust. 

The  delicate  rose  that  blooms  in  the  morn 

Will  fade  ere  the  close  of  the  day, 
While  the  uncouth  bramble  is  sturdy  with  life 

When  the  rose  has  gone  to  decay. 

But  the  bright  blade  bears  a  keen,  trenchant  edge, 

And  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  rose, — 
While  the  lead  is  dull,  and  none  care  to  gather 

The  bramble  in  the  forest  that  grows. 

The  blast  that  scourges  the  sensitive  soul 

Is  unfelt  by  the  well-fed  swine; 
But  the  swine  is  content  to  wallow  in  mire, 

While  the  spirit  must  seek  the  divine! 


COMPENSATION.  —  A    FRAGMENT.        253 

Then  accept  with  joy  the  nature  that  dooms  thee 
To  the  sufferings  and  sorrows  of  earth, 

For  these  are  forgot  like  dreams  of  the  night 
By  the  soul  in  the  land  of  its  birth. 

San  Francisco,  January,  1890. 


A     FRAGMENT. 


DEFIANTLY, 

Reliantly 

And  giantly, 
Ever  bear  life's  troubles; 
And  you  '11  find — they  're  but  bubbles! 


San  Francisco,  1871. 


ADVERSITY. 


•'  Sweet  are  the  uses,  of  Adi-ersity; 
H  'Inch,  like  the  load,  M.C/V  </«</  venomous, 
11  ,\i>  s  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head." 

— "  As  You  LIKE  IT." 


I  ONCE  have  been  young,  but  now  I  am  old! 
Have  oft  been  by  Fortune  left  out  in  the  cold; 
But  still  on  life's  journey  I  something  have  earned, 
And  by  long  experience  some  wisdom  have  learned, 
Which,  in  a  few  words,  I  now  here  will  give, 
As  a  lesson  to  those  who  may  after  me  live: 

All  pictures  of  love  and  beauty  are  made 
By  contrast  of  color,  by  light  and  by  shade, 
And  forms  are  as  changing  as  shadows  that  pass, — 
As  bloom  on  the  flower,  or  dew  on  the  grass- 
New  life  ever  springs  from  death  and  decay, 
As  from  the  dark  night  is  born  the  bright  day; 
The  sunshine  is  bright  where  darkness  has  been, 
And  joy  may  be  found  where  sorrow  was  seen. 
Then  yield  not  to  grief  nor  give  way  to  sorrow, 
The  gloom  of  to-day  may  be  brightness  to-morrow  f 

The  hail-storm  is  bitter  the  while  it  may  last, 

But  the  sunshine  is  bright  when  the  tempest  has  passed. 

The  sweet  cup  of  pleasure,  that  it  be  enjoyed, 
With  some  drops  of  acid  must  needs  be  alloyed. 

Did  the  sun  ever  shine,  't  would  weary  the  sight, 
And  hence  we  welcome  the  shadows  of  night. 

He  who  by  sorrow  has  never  been  scourged, — 
By  wormwood  and  gall  has  never  been  purged — 
Like  Jeshurun  of  old,  may  wax  and  t;r<>\v  f.it, 
Yet  still  he  '11  be  but  a  swine  for  all  that. 


ADVERSITY.  255. 

The  man  who  in  the  hammock  of  luxury  swings 

And  hears  but  the  song  that  Flattery  sings, 

With  his  high-sounding  name,  his  wealth,  and  his  all, 

Will  count  for  no  more  than  a  cheek-painted  doll; 

While  he  who  can  brave  Adversity's  gale, 

Defy  its  sharp  sleet  and  cold,  smiting  hail, 

A  hero  will  be,  and  greater  by  far 

Than  he  who  wins  laurels  on  the  red  fields  of  war. 

That  man  who,  by  kindness,  may  save  from  despair 

The  outcasts  of  earth,  (whoever  they  are), 

Whatever  his  creed  or  country  may  be, 

A  Christian,  a  Jew,  or  "heathen  Chinee," — 

A  saint  is  as  much  in  Charity's  eyes 

As  he  who  in  the  "odor  of  sanctity  dies." 

Then  judge  not  too  harshly  the  outcasts  of  earth ; 
Consider  conditions  surrounding  their  birth; 
Let  kindness  and  mercy  to  such  ones  be  given 
Like  soft  summer  dew  that  comes  down  from  heaven! 
Condemn  not  the  wretch  who  lies  in  the  gutter; 
Nor  him  to  his  home  who  's  borne  on  a  shutter; 
But  give  him  a  hand,  and,  like  a  kind  friend, 
Bid  him  stand  up,  and  help  him  to  mend. 

And  thus  may  be  healed  the  wounds  of  the  soul, 
And  the  sick  one  be  made  all  healthful  and  whole. 

No  mortal  e'er  lived  who  from  folly  was  free; 
Perfection  on  earth  we  never  shall  see- 
Pure  angels  may  dwell  in  regions  sublime, 
But  never  are  found  'mid  the  tempests  of  Time. 

San  Francisco,  November  5,  1893. 


A    DREAM    OF    ERIN. 


'T  WAS  midnight,  and  the  hand  of  sleep 
Had  wrapped  my  soul  in  slumbers  deep, 
When  on  my  dreaming  fancy  fell 
A  vision  wild  and  strange  to  tell. 

I  stood,  methought,  upon  the  shore 
Where  loud  the  Atlantic  billows  roar, 
And  as  I  gazed  far  o'er  the  seas 
I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  breeze. 

A  thrilling  voice!  not  soft  and  low — 
'T  was  not  the  wailing  voice  of  woe, 
Nor  did  its  deep'ning  cadence  tell 
Of  song,  or  feast,  or  marriage  bell. 

I  listened— and  the  thrilling  strain 
Was  heard  above  the  sounding  main, 
And  in  its  accents  wild  and  grand 
I  caught  the  tone  of  stern  command. 

The  words  were  in  that  ancient  tongue 
In  which  the  Celtic  Minstrel  sung, 
Ere  silence  dwelt  in  Tara's  halls 
Or  slept  the  harp  on  Tara's  walls. 

And  as  I  wondered  what  could  be 
That  voice  that  came  across  the  sea, 
I  saw  a  bright  and  queenly  form 
Arise  above  the  ocean  storm! 

Her  robe  it  was  of  emerald  green, 
A  shield  she  bore  of  glittering  sheen, 
And  firmly  grasped  within  her  hand 
I  marked  the  ancient  Celtic  brand. 

I  gazed  with  wonder  ami  with  awe 
Upon  the  queenly  form  I  saw, 


A    DREAM  OF   ERIN.  257 

And  as  I  stooped  her  voice  to  hear, 
These  burning  words  fell  on  my  ear: 

"  Awake!  ye  children  of  a  land 
Long  crushed  beneath  the  tyrant's  hand, 
And  taught  how  bitter  'tis  to  feel 
How  heavy  is  the  tyrant's  heel! 

"  Arise!  and  come  from  far  and  near; 
Awake!  and  come  with  brand  and  spear; 
Aye,  come  with  manly  heart  and  hand 
And  battle  for  your  native  land. 

<(  And  swear!  by  her  deserted  halls, 
Her  ruined  towers  and  broken  walls, 
And  by  the  tear  the  exile  weeps 
And  by  the  grave  where  Emmet  sleeps — 

4<  Swear!  by  your  own  dear  native  land, 
Now  crushed  beneath  a  tyrant's  hand, 
Which  has  for  long  and  bitter  years 
Been  watered  by  her  children's  tears — 

"  Swear!  by  your  country's  honored  dead, 
By  all  the  blood  of  martyrs  shed, 
By  all  that  e'er  ye  hope  to  see 
That  Erin  shall  again  be  free! 

"  And  let  the  Saxon  bosom  feel 
The  vengeful  thrust  of  Celtic  steel; 
And  then  forever  rent  and  broke, 
Shall  be  the  tyrant's  galling  yoke. 

"  And  then  again  shall  Erin  be 
The  land  of  hope  and  liberty! 
Then  shall  her  exiled  sons  return 
To  where  their  ancient  altars  burn. 

41  Then  shall  the  shamrock  freshly  bloom 
Upon  the  warrior's  honored  tomb, 
And  Erin's  banner  proudly  wave 
Above  the  patriot's  sacred  grave. 


258  A    DKEAM   OF  ERIN. 

"  Then  shall  the  bright-eyed  maiden  tell 
How  her  young  lover  bravely  fell, 
And  how  upon  the  battle-field 
He  died  upon  his  glittering  shield. 

41  And  as  she  weeps  beside  his  grave, 
O'er  which  the  laurel  green  shall  wave, 
She  '11  dry  her  tears,  to  think  that  he 
Died  for  his  country's  liberty. 

14  Then  let  Erin's  children  far  and  near 
Awake!  and  come  with  brand  and  spear, 
And  let  them  all  with  heart  and  hand 
Strike  bravely  for  their  native  land! " 

She  ceased — and  with  a  flashing  eye 
She  waved  her  shining  brand  on  high, 
And  fiercely  smote  the  sounding  shield 
And  called  her  sons  to  freedom's  field. 

Like  the  wild  notes  of  Tartar  gong, 
The  clanging  sound  rose  loud  and  long, 
And  mountain  peak  and  hill  and  plain 
Rolled  back  the  echoing  sound  again. 

Anon,  I  heard  the  heavy  tread 

Of  arm£d  men  to  battle  led; 

And  then  I  heard  the  thundering  sound 

Of  war-steeds  prancing  o'er  the  ground. 

A  moment  more,  and  loud  and  clear 
The  clash  of  arms  fell  on  my  ear; 
Then  I  beheld  a  bloody  field 
Where  Celtic  spear  met  Saxon  shield! 

And  wildly  o'er  the  battle  storm 
Again  I  saw  that  queenly  form, 
With  shining  brand  and  flashing  eye, 
Shouting,  On!  on!  to  victory! 

Stern  was  the  strife — the  emerald  sod 
Was  red  with  many  a  hero's  blood, 


A    DREAM   OF  ERIN.  259 

And  Celtic  spear  and  Saxon  shield 
Lay  shivered  on  the  ghastly  field. 

The  battle  ceased — the  storm  was  o'er — 
I  heard  the  clash  of  arms  no  more; 
But  far  and  wide,  o'er  all  the  plain, 
I  heard  a  deep,  harmonious  strain: 

'T  was  the  proud  anthem  of  the  free — 
The  glorious  hymn  of  liberty! 
Now  that  the  bloody  fight  was  done 
And  freedom's  battle  fought  and  won. 


San  Francisco,  1865. 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   ERIN. 


SPEAK  kindly,  I  pray,  to  the  children  of  Erin — 
To  Patrick  and  Margaret,  to  Bridget  and  Barney, — 

As  hardly  they  toil  in  the  land  of  the  stranger 
For  the  lone  ones  who  dwell  on  the  banks  of  Killarney. 

Their  eyes  they  are  bright,  their  cheeks  they  are  rosy, 
They  sing  as  they  toil  at  reaping  and  sowing; 

But  the  songs  that  they  sing,  breathe  a  spirit  of  sadness 
That  tells  of  the  land  where  the  shamrock  is  growing. 

In  country,  in  town,  in  city,  in  village, 

In  farmhouse  and  dairy — at  the  mouth  of  the  cannon! 
The  children  of  Erin  forever  are  dreaming 

Of  the  land  that  is  watered  by  the  waves  of  the  Shannon. 

In  far-distant  lands,  wherever  they  roam, 

'Mid  the  snows  of  the  North  and  the  palms  of  the  South, 
Erin's  warm-hearted  sons  in  their  dreams  still  return 

To  the  green  isle  of  their  home,  to  the  land  of  their  birth! 

They  dream  of  the  cabin  that  stands  on  the  hillside, 
Of  the  green,  sunny  meadows,  where  the  primroses  bloom; 

They  dream  of  the  fields  where  in  childhood  they  played, 
Of  the  willow  that  weeps  o'er  a  young  brother's  tomb. 

And  sad  is  the  heart  of  Erin's  poor  daughter, 
As  she  toils  for  a  far-away  father  and  mother, 

And  her  blue  eyes  are  dimmed  with  the  teardrops  of  sorrow 
As  she  thinks  of  a  bright-eyed  sister  or  brother. 

Then  speak  kindly,  I  pray,  to  the  children  of  Erin — 
To  Patrick  and  Margaret,  to  Bridget  and  Barney, — 

As  hardly  they  toil  in  the  land  of  the  stranger 

For  the  loved  ones  who  dwell  on  the  banks  of  Killarney. 

San  Francisco,  1861. 


TO   THE   GENIUS    OF   POESY. 


HAIL!  spirit  bright  of  Poesy, 

In  youth  I  loved  thee  well, 
And  thy  sweet  voice  in  mine  old  age 

Is  cheering  to  me  still. 

I  've  seen  thee  in  the  waving  corn 

And  in  the  blooming  flower; 
I  've  seen  thee  in  the  morning  dew 

And  in  the  silver  shower; 

I  've  seen  thee  in  the  rosy  cloud 

And  in  the  falling  tear; 
I  've  seen  thee  by  the  sleeping  babe 

And  at  the  silent  bier; 

I  've  heard  thee  in  the  raging  storm 

And  in  the  rustling  leaf, 
Amid  wild  scenes  of  revelry 

And  in  the  sigh  of  grief. 

The  birds  for  me  have  sung  thy  songs 

Among  the  leafy  trees; 
I  've  listened  to  thy  whispering  voice 

Upon  the  evening  breeze. 

Thou  'st  been  with  me  on  meadow  green, 

And  on  the  desert  sand, 
And  my  companion  hast  thou  been 

In  many  a  lonely  land — 

Where  Arctic  storms  in  fury  rage ; 

Where  tropic  breezes  sleep; 
Where  snow-clad  mountains  rear  their  heads, 

And  on  the  rolling  deep! 

For  me  the  gorgeous  palace  thou 
Hast  built  with  magic  hand, 


262  TO    THE    GENIUS   OF  POESY. 

And  from  the  golden  clouds  of  eve 
Hast  wrought  the  castle  grand! 

And  though  these  beauteous,  airy  things 

Did  but  an  hour  remain — 
When  swept  away,  thy  magic  skill 

Hast  built  them  up  again! 

Thus  thou  to  me  hast  ever  been 

A  source  of  life  and  light, 
Amid  the  toilsome  hours  of  day 

And  in  the  shades  of  night. 

Then  let  the  miser  dig  for  gold— 

The  warrior  seek  for  fame — 
And  proud  Ambition  vainly  toil 

To  win  a  deathless  name- 
While  I,  beneath  thy  sunny  smiles, 

(More  happy  far  than  they) 
In  listening  to  thy  merry  songs 

Will  pass  my  life  away! 

And  when  the  bell  shall  strike  the  hour 

That  calls  me  hence  away 
To  some  fair  land  where  golden  beams 

On  silver  streamlets  play, 

I  know  that  thou  'It  be  with  me  then, 

And  that  with  gentle  hand 
And  laughing  brow  thou  'It  lead  me  on 

To  some  bright,  sunny  land. 

San  Francisco,  1885. 


TO    A    PICTURE    OF    TOM    MOORE. 

As  IN  that  speaking  picture  now, 
I  gaze  on  that  poetic  brow, 
I  hear,  methinks,  the  melting  strain 
Of  Erin's  tuneful  lyre  again. 

But,  well  I  know  the  harp  's  unstrung 
To  which  the  Bard  of  Erin  sung, 
And  well  I  know  that  brow  is  laid 
Beneath  the  weeping  willow's  shade. 

And  still  Hibernia's  Muses  weep 
All  sadly  o'er  the  Minstrel's  sleep, 
And  breathe  the  sweetest  memories  o'er 
The  hallowed  dust  of  matchless  Moore! 

And  sleeps  that  tuneful  spirit,  too, 
Which  from  ethereal  regions  drew 
The  thrilling  notes  of  living  fire 
That  rolled  along  his  magic  lyre? 

Oh,  no;  for  though  that  harp  of  song 
Has  slept  in  chains  of  silence  long, 
And  though  on  earth  the  list'ning  ear 
No  more  its  tuneful  chords  will  hear, 

Still,  still  on  Erin's  meadows  green, 
And  by  her  lakes  of  silver  sheen, 
Its  lingering  echoes  yet  remain 
In  many  a  sweet,  enchanting  strain. 

And  while  the  winding  Shannon  flows, 
And  on  its  banks  the  shamrock  grows, 
Love's  sweetest  strains  on  earth  will  be 
The  music  of  its  minstrelsy! 

And  well  I  ween,  in  spirit  lands, 
Where  harps  are  touched  by  airy  hands, 
The  Minstrel  still,  in  sweetest  lays, 
Recalls  the  scenes  of  earthly  days. 

San  Francisco,  1868. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


ON  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 
Still  sweetly  sings  the  warbling  bird, 

But  he  who  gave  its  name  to  song 
Will  never  more  on  earth  be  heard. 

In  springtime  still  the  daisies  bloom 
Upon  the  bonnie  banks  o'  Ayr, 

But  Burns  no  more  will  tread  its  braes 
Or  tell  his  tale  o'  sorrow  there. 

The  streams  around  Montgomery  still 
In  murmurs  kiss  the  pebbly  shore, 

But  Scotia's  sweetest  minstrel  there 
Will  mourn  his  Highland  love  no  more. 

By  Lugar's  stream  the  summer  leaf 
Still  fades  beneath  the  autumn's  breath, 

But  there  no  more  the  weeping  bard 
Will  mourn  Glencairn's  untimely  death. 

His  harp  is  hushed— its  thrilling  notes 
No  more  are  heard  in  shady  dell, 

But  heathery  hill  and  flowery  brae 
Still  of  its  tuneful  numbers  tell. 

His  songs  are  heard  in  mountain  glen, 
'Mid  Highland  hills,  on  sunny  plains, 

And  shady  woods  and  meadows  green 
Still  echo  to  his  magic  strains. 

And  while  Ben  Lomond  proudly  stands, 
And  mountain  streams  their  courses  run, 

The  Scottish  Muse  will  freshly  keep 
The  memory  of  her  gifted  son. 

Birthplace  of  Burns,  Scotland,  August,  1848. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 


WHILE  ancient  ages  justly  claim 
For  their  great  sons  immortal  fame, 
And  modern  time  may  proudly  run 
The  record  o'er  of  what  it 's  done — 
Still,  'mong  the  sons  of  every  clime, 
Of  ancient  age,  or  modern  time, 
Whose  names  are  writ  on  history's  page 
As  hero,  poet,  priest,  or  sage, 
None  stands  so  high,  or  shines  so  bright, 
Nor  sheds  such  beaming  rays  of  light, 
Nor  falls  so  grandly  on  my  ear 
As  does  the  name  of  Will  Shakespeare! 

No  jewelled  crown  by  monarch  worn, 
Nor  sceptre  by  a  tyrant  borne, 
Such  kingdom  vast  has  ever  swayed 
Nor  has  such  lasting  empire  made. 

Nor  e'er  has  sage  of  brightest  thought 
Such  wisdom  spoke  as  Shakespeare  taughtr 
Nor  e'er  has  harp  of  minstrel  rung 
With  sweeter  notes  than  he  has  sung. 

The  magic  harp  to  which  he  sung, 
By  Nature's  hand  was  deftly  strung 
With  countless  chords,  which  music  made 
To  catch  the  ear  of  every  grade. 

One  chord  he  touched — grand  notes  sublime 
Rolled  from  beyond  the  mists  of  time; 
Another  smote — and  instant  he 
Held  converse  with  Philosophy! 

Another  waked — lo!  dewy  morn 

Breathed  fragrance  from  the  blooming  thorn, 


266  \\-lLI.IAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

And  meadow  green  and  mountain  gray 
Grew  bright  in  smiles  of  "jocund  day  "! 

Anon,  a  tragic  chord  he  smote, 
And  from  it  rolled  the  battle's  note! 
And  then  a  chord  in  wailings  low — 
Of  sorrow  sang  and  hopeless  woe. 

And  then  he  touched  the  chord  of  mirth, 
And  sang  of  humblest  things  of  earth; 
He  bade  the  clown,  in  homely  speech, 
The  simple  truths  of  Nature  teach. 

Whatever  chord  the  Minstrel  smote, 
It  ever  gave  a  truthful  note — 
If  he  of  war  and  battle  sung, 
Wild  stormy  music  from  it  rung; 
And  if  of  love — the  notes  were  soft 
As  song  of  skylark  from  aloft! 

In  thought  sublime  at  home  was  he 

In  every  place,  on  land  or  sea, 

Where  Hope  may  dwell,  or  Love  may  call, 

Or  Pity  bid  a  teardrop  fall 

On  Sorrow's  head,  and  give  a  sigh 

For  some  who  live  and  some  who  die. 

So,  'mong  the  sons  of  every  clime, 

Of  ancient  age,  or  modern  time, 

\Vhose  names  are  writ  on  history's  page 

As  hero,  poet,  priest,  or  sage, 

None  stands  so  high,  or  shines  so  bright, 

Nor  sheds  such  beaming  rays  of  light, 

Nor  falls  so  grandly  on  my  ear 

As  does  the  name  of  Will  Shakespeare! 

San  Francisco,  February,  5,  1893. 


LORD   BYRON. 


PROUD,  scornful,  and  grand,  like  a  king  on  his  throne, 
High  up  on  Parnassus  stood  Byron  alone; 
For  fearless  was  he  in  his  own  living  age, 
And  few  are  recorded  on  time-honored  page 
Whose  fingers  could  strike  such  lightning  and  fire 
As  flashed  from  the  chords  of  his  magical  lyre. 

He  played  with  the  lightning — with  the  thunder  he  spoke! 
He  laughed  at  the  tempest  around  him  that  broke — 
High  converse  he  held  with  the  angels  of  light, 
And  discourses  dark  with  the  demons  of  night. 

He  sang  to  the  stars  in  numbers  sublime; 

With  the  ocean's  wild  song  kept  measure  and  time; 

Grand  pictures  he  drew  from  the  dark,  rolling  cloud, 

When  the  lightning  was  red  and  the  thunder  was  loud— 

Yet  could  from  the  regions  of  grandeur  descend, 

A  teardrop  to  shed  o'er  a  four-footed  friend. 

San  Francisco,  February  8,  1893. 


HENRY    FIELDING. 


IN  far-off  Portugal  his  bones  repose, 
But  Fielding  rests  not  there — he  is  immortal! 
And  lives  in  every  part  of  this  wide  world 
Where  English  tongue  is  spoken — and  't  is  pity 
His  ashes  sleep  so  far  away  from  where 
Tom  Jones  was  born,  Amelia  loved — and  where 
Young  Andrews  kept  the  bloom  of  virtue  fresh. 
Oh,  England!  the  bones  of  all  thy  kings 
Shall  long  have  turned  to  dust,  when  Fielding  will 
By  student  and  philosopher  be  loved. 
Smollett,  Dickens,  Thackeray  and  the  rest 
May  bow  their  heads  in  honor  to  his  name. 
Fielding  the  true!  thy  characters  have  breath 
That  will  defy  Time,  Prejudice,  and  Death. 

San   Francisco,  February  n,  1893. 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 


HERE,  in  Westminster's  Gothic  aisles,  I  stand, 
By  tombs  of  sages,  poets,  kings,  and  heroes! 
The  warrior's  trumpet-tongue  is  silent  now; 
The  monarch's  crumbling  arm  no  sceptre  sways; 
But  still  the  poet's  sounding  lyre  is  heard — 
And  wandering  students  come  from  distant  lands 
To  view  the  "  corner  "  where  his  ashes  sleep; 
And  as  I  list  the  organ's  pealing  notes, 
Methinks  I  hear  his  tuneful  voice  and  catch 
The  cadence  of  his  lofty  notes  of  song, 
Which  still  will  echo  when  these  decaying  tombs 
And  these  old  Abbey  walls  have  crumbled  down. 
That  man  builds  best,  who  builds  with  airy  things, 
For  they  outlive  the  castles  built  by  kings. 

London,  England,  July,  1848. 


THOUGHTS, 

SUGGESTED    BY   READING    THE    SCOTTISH    POEMS   OF 
JAMES   LINEN. 


BUT  that  I  think  no  spirit  e'er 
From  Azrael's  land  of  gloom  returns, 

I  would  believe  these  simple  strains 
Are  from  the  magic  harp  of  Burns. 

What  hand  but  his  could  touch  the  chord 
That  wakes  these  wild  and  warbling  lays, 

That  tell  of  Scotia's  heathery  hills 
And  of  her  bonny  banks  and  braes? 

But  in  the  silent  halls  of  Death 
I  know  the  matchless  poet  sleeps, 

And  well,  I  ween,  the  Scottish  Muse 
Still  o'er  his  dust  in  anguish  weeps — 

And  ever  have  I  thought,  (till  now), 
That,  while  in  death  the  minstrel  lay, 

The  sorrowing  Muses  seized  his  harp 
And  tore  its  tuneful  chords  away! 

But  now,  I  know,  with  trembling  hands 
They  gently  took  the  magic  thing, 

And,  weeping,  hung  it  in  their  halls, 
Till  other  hands  its  chords  could  string. 

And  other  hands  have  strung  it  now, 
And  waked  its  wild  and  witching  strain, — 

For  in  these  simple  lays  I  'm  sure 
I  hear  its  magic  notes  again. 

San  Francisco,  February  21,  1867. 


THE     ANCIENT     GAEL. 


THAT  rugged  land  is  dear  to  me 

Where  Arran's  peaks  o'erlook  the  sea, 

Whose  rocky  glens  and  mountains  lie 

Beneath  a  gray  and  misty  sky; 

WThose  beetling  crags  o'erhang  the  deep 

O'er  which  wild  storms  in  anger  sweep, 

Where  raging  billows  loudly  roar 

And,  thundering,  shake  the  rock-bound  shore. 

I  love  its  glens  and  heathery  hills, 
Its  silver  lakes  and  mountain  rills, 
Its  curling  mists  of  shadowy  form, 
Its  fitful  clime  of  cloud  and  storm, 
Its  banks  and  braes  and  shady  dells 
Where  Nature's  wildest  spirit  dwells! 

Aye,  these  I  love!  for  tyrant  hand 
Ne'er  ruled  that  rugged,  mountain  land; 
'Twas  Nature  formed  its  glens  to  be 
The  home  secure  of  Liberty! 
And  my  ancestral  line  I  trace 
Through  children  of  that  savage  race. 

Imperial  Rome  her  eagles  bore 
From  tropic  clime  to  Arctic  shore, 
But  cohort  ne'er  could  make  a  stand 
In  Caledonia's  mountain  land; 
Her  savage  children,  wild  and  free 
As  storms  that  sweep  the  northern  sea, 
By  their  rude  homes  in  battle  stood 
And  backward  rolled  the  Roman  flood. 

In  Albion's  vales  and  meadows  green, 
Proud  Rome's  imperial  works  were  seen; 
But  savage  Pict  and  fiery  Scot 
By  her  proud  arms  were  conquered  not. 


272  THE    ANCIENT    GAEL. 

As  I  look  back  to  ancient  age 
And  glance  o'er  Time's  historic  page, 
I  hear  the  clansman's  pibroch  shrill 
On  meadow  green  and  heathery  hill; 
I  hear  the  answering  slogan-cry 
From  valley  low  and  mountain  high; 
I  see  in  vale  and  shady  glen 
The  gathering  of  the  chieftain's  men! 

I  hear  the  chief's  wild  battle-cry; 
I  see  him  fall  and  bravely  die! 

I  hear  the  victor's  savage  shout, 
And  see  a  wild,  barbaric  rout! 

From  Morven's  darkly-wooded  vale, 
I  hear  a  sad,  lamenting  wail — 
It  is  the  bard's  wild  funeral  strain 
O'er  his  loved  chief  in  battle  slain! 

Hushed  is  the  wailing  voice  of  woe, 
The  wailing  song  so  sad  and  low — 

Again  the  harper  sweeps  the  strings, 
And  now  a  vengeful  song  he  sings — 

The  sounding  notes  roll  down  the  glen, 

And  call  upon  the  warrior  men 

To  lay  aside  their  bootless  grief 

And  now  avenge  their  fallen  chief — 

Their  ruined  huts  in  ashes  laid, 

Their  wives  and  children  homeless  made. 

Born  on  a  bleak  and  barren  soil, 

Which  little  gave  to  culturing  toil, 

And  nursed  'mid  scenes  of  strife  and  blood, 

Of  mountain  storms  and  rolling  flood — 

These  savage  tribes  were  taught  to  be, 

Like  their  own  mountain  tempests,  free! 

On  many  a  ghastly  field  of  death, 
O'erswept  by  war's  tempestuous  breath, 


THE    ANCIENT    GAEL.  273 

Like  mountain  oak  or  sea-girt  rock, 
The  Gael  have  met  the  battle  shock ; 
Have  sternly  stemmed  the  rolling  tide, 
Have  won  the  day  or  bravely  died. 

On  Caledonia's  misty  hills, 
And  by  her  lakes  and  mountain  rills, 
On  Bannockburn  and  Flodden  field 
The  Gaelic  spear  met  Saxon  shield! 

On  the  famed  field  of  Waterloo, 
To  his  traditions  sternly  true, 
The  gallant  Gael  unwavering  stood 
And  bravely  shed  the  crimson  flood, 
And  as  he  fell,  the  pibroch's  strain 
In  martial  notes  recalled  again 
The  heathery  hills  and  mountains  grand 
Of  his  far-distant,  sea-girt  land; 
And,  as  in  death  he  closed  his  eyes, 
His  thoughts  were  of  her  misty  skies! 

In  every  land  and  every  clime, 

In  ancient  age  and  modern  time, 

The  children  of  that  savage  race 

Have  found  on  earth  an  honored  place — 

On  Indian  plain,  on  desert  sands, 
In  western  wilds,  in  savage  lands, 
From  where  the  tropic  orange  grows 
To  limits  of  the  Arctic  snows — 
The  Gaelic  race  on  land  and  sea 
Have  champions  been  of  Liberty! 

And  in  the  dark,  primeval  woods, 
Where  roll  the  mighty  western  floods, 
Where  ruined  hut  alone  could  tell 
How  some  backwoodsman  bravely  fell, 
That  hardy  race  have  sternly  stood 
'Mid  savage  scenes  of  strife  and  blood. 

When  Braddock  met  with  sad  defeat 
Where  mountain  streams  together  meet, 


274  /'///:'    ANCIENT    GAEL. 

But  for  the  hardy  mountain  men 
Whose  fathers  dwelt  in  rocky  glen, 
The  trained  troops  that  fatal  day 
Had  to  the  savage  been  a  prey. 

Ticonderoga  witnessed,  too, 
The  valor  stern  and  courage  true, 
Which  has  on  many  a  bloody  field 
Of  independence  been  the  shield — 
'T  was  on  that  field  where  blood  was  shed 
Till  dyed  was  earth  with  carnage  red, 
That  Morgan's  rifles  turned  the  tide 
And  victory  gave  to  Freedom's  side! 

Proud  Packenham,  with  all  his  boast, 
When  landing  on  the  southern  coast 
With  Wellington's  immortal  band, 
Which  fame  had  won  in  foreign  land, 
No  match  was  found  for  Erin's  son 
Who  there  immortal  honors  won; 
The  western  rifle  proved  to  be 
More  than  a  match  for  vanity, 
And  Jackson  there  inscribed  his  name 
On  the  historic  page  of  fame. 

But  not  on  fields  of  blood  alone 

Has  this  brave  race  its  courage  shown; 

When  far  removed  from  blood  and  strife, 

In  peaceful  walks  of  civic  life, 

They  too  have  noble  service  done, 

And  highest  honors  there  have  won. 

Let  England  boast  historic  fame, 
The  sons  of  France  an  ancient  name, 
The  German  race  a  noble  line, 
Italia's  sons  their  art  divine — 
Let  Spanish  grandeur  proudly  trace 
The  blood  of  the  hidalgo's  race, 
While  I,  with  equal  pride,  will  claim 
High  honor  for  the  Gaelic  name— 


THE    ANCIENT    GAEL.  275 

Which  on  the  bright,  historic  page, 
From  earliest  time  of  darkest  age, 
Recorded  is  in  every  land 
Where  rivers  run  and  mountains  stand! 

While  I  to  other  lands  will  give 
The  highest  honors  while  I  live, 
Still  dearer  is  that  land  to  me 
Where  Arran's  peaks  o'erlook  the  sea! 


Sati  Francisco,  1890. 


LETTER     TO     A     FRIEND. 


I  SEND  you  here  some  rhyming  stuff, 
And  some  of  it  may  be  too  rough; 
If  so,  I  pray  you  will  excuse 
My  sometimes  wild  and  wayward  Muse. 

In  fact,  she  is  a  saucy  jade, 
And  many  a  trick  she  has  me  played, 
Since  first  far  back  in  early  time 
She  drove  me  into  making  rhyme. 

But,  yet  for  all,  she  is  not  bad, 
For  oft  she  's  made  my  spirit  glad, 
And  sorrow  oft  has  whiled  away 
And  brightened  many  a  cloudy  day. 

And  many  a  tear  I  've  seen  her  shed, 
(When  none  were  near),  o'er  Sorrow's  head, 
And  o'er  the  wretched  breathe  a  sigh 
When  others  passed  unheeding  by. 

So,  as  we've  journeyed  long  together, 
In  sunny  days  and  stormy  weather, 
Till  life  shall  close,  I  hope  that  she 
Will  tread  the  vales  of  earth  with  me. 


San  Francisco,  1885. 


SONG     TO     WILLIE. 

[TO   WILLIAM  C.   RICE,   THE  PLAYMATE  OF  MY  BOYHOOD.] 
(TUNE:    Castles  in  the  Air.) 

O  MONIE  a  year  has  fleeted,  Willie, 

Syne  we  were  lads  together, 
An'  i'  the  burnie  biggit  dams 

In  fair  or  stormy  weather; 
In  fair  or  stormy  weather,  Willie, 

In  fair  or  stormy  weather, 
An'  i'  the  burnie  biggit  dams 

In  fair  or  stormy  weather. 

Our  footsteps,  then,  were  lightsome,  Willie, 

Our  hearts  were  blithe  and  merry, 
As  thro'  the  autumn  woods  we  roamed 

An'  pu'd  the  hawthorn  berry; 
An'  pu'd  the  hawthorn  berry,  Willie, 

An'  pu'd  the  hawthorn  berry, 
As  thro'  the  autumn  woods  we  roamed 

An'  pu'd  the  hawthorn  berry. 

But  I,  sin  syne,  hae  wandered,  Willie, 

O'er  monie  a  landscape  dreary, 
Hae  trod  the  thorny  path  o'  life 

Wi'  footstep  aften  weary; 
Wi'  footstep  aften  weary,  Willie; 

Wi'  footstep  aften  weary, 
Hae  trod  the  thorny  path  o'  life 

Wi'  footstep  aften  weary. 

But  noo,  I  see  the  gloamin',  Willie, 

The  stars  will  soon  be  blinkin', 
For  fast  adoun  the  western  sky 

The  sun  o'  life  is  sinkin' ; 


278  SONG     TO     \\-II.LIE. 

The  sun  o'  life  is  sinkin',  Willie, 
The  sun  o'  life  is  sinkin', 

For  fast  adoun  the  western  sky 
The  sun  o'  life  is  sinkin'. 

Adoun  the  hill  I'm  stumblin',  Willie, 

And  soon  will  find  a  pillow 
Amang  the  ones  who  lang  hae  slept 

Aneath  the  drooping  willow; 
Aneath  its  waving  branches,  Willie, 

Aneath  its  waving  branches, 
Amang  the  ones  who  lang  hae  slept 

Aneath  the  drooping  willow. 

San  Francisco,  1871. 


TO    JOHNNIE. 

[JOHN    CENTER.] 


OH,  Johnnie  lad,  what  tho'  for  a' 
Upon  your  head  begins  to  fa' 
Some  airly  skiffs  o'  wintry  snaw, 

Myaith,  I'll  tak', 
That  still  you  're  soun'  in  win'  an'  craw, 

In  limb  an'  back. 

I  '11  warrant  me,  you  dinna  feel 
Old  age  as  yet  upon  you  steal, 
That  you  can  jig  an'  dance  a  reel, 

A  sang  can  sing— 
An',  on  a  pinch,  can  brawly  heel 

The  Highlan'  fling! 

An'  then  your  spirit— -deil  tak'  me,  man! 
Tho'  ye  hae  reached  twa  score  an'  ten, 
There  's  unco  few  'mang  younger  men 

Can  match  with  thee, 
Whiles  crackin'  wi'  some  cantie  frien' 

In  fun  an'  glee. 


San  Francisco,  1870. 


TO  A  SWEET  SINGER  OF   THE   SONGS  O] 
SCOTLAND. 

[MRS.  GEORGE   CENTER.] 


WHENE'ER  I  list  thy  tuneful  voice 

In  that  wild,  lilting  strain, 
I  hear,  methinks,  the  magic  notes 

Of  Scotia's  bards  again! 

I  see  her  sunny  banks  and  braes; 

I  see  her  heathery  hills, 
And  hear  far  down  her  shady  dells 

Her  murmuring  mountain  rills. 

I  see  the  glancing  sunbeams  bright 

On  Lomond's  bosom  play; 
I  see  old  Arran's  rugged  peaks 

O'erlook  bright  Rothsay  bay. 

I  hear  the  pibroch's  thrilling  notes 

In  Fruin's  lonely  glen; 
I  see  the  fiery  cross  that  calls 

Clan-Alpin's  mountain  men. 

I  see  fair  Ellen's  tiny  skiff 

O'er  Katrin's  waters  glide; 
I  hear  McGregor's  battle-cry 

On  Lomond's  mountain  side. 

I  see  the  old,  historic  bard, 
With  beard  so  white  and  long, 

And  hear  him  strike  his  sounding  harp 
To  some  wild  battle-song. 

I  hear  him  in  a  wild  lament 
Of  deep,  despairing  grief, 


TO    A    SWEET    SINGER. 

As  bending  o'er  his  wailing  harp 
He  mourns  his  fallen  chief. 

I  see  the  shepherds  tending  flocks 
That  through  the  meadows  rove, 

And  hear  the  laddies  whispering  love 
In  Kelvin's  shady  grove. 

I  list  the  lavrock's  silvery  notes 
That  greet  the  early  morn; 

I  hear  the  reaper's  merry  song 
Among  the  "rigs  o'  corn." 

Let  fair  Italia  sing  the  songs 
That  breathe  of  love  and  wine, 

And  Gallic  minstrels  praise  the  land 
That  gives  the  clustering  vine; 

Let  Switzer  shepherds  sweetly  sing 
Of  Alpine  mountains  grand, 

And  German  poets  proudly  boast 
Of  their  loved  Fatherland; 

But  give  to  me  the  simple  songs 
That  Scottish  lassies  sing 

While  tripping  o'er  the  flowery  braes 
In  sunny  days  of  spring! 

I  'd  rather  hear  the  songs  that  tell 
Of  Scotland's  banks  and  braes, 

Than  list  to  Patti's  warbling  notes 
In  famed  Italian  lays. 

The  one,  like  sound  of  silver  bell, 
Falls  on  the  listening  ear; 

The  other  wakes  a  sleeping  chord 
That  starts  the  falling  tear. 

Long  may  that  tuneful  voice  of  thine 
Enchant  the  listening  ear, 

And  touch  the  chord  that  ever  wakes 
The  gently  falling  tear  ! 

San  Francisco,  1886. 


28l 


T7HI7ERSIT7 


ANSWKR    TO    DAVID    CALDERWOOD.* 


Noo,  DAVIE,  to  this  plea  o'  thine, 
Which  ye  hae  brought  'gin  me  an'  mine 
For  four-score  thoosan'  crowns  in  coin, 

An'  whilk,  ye  say, 
By  laws,  baith  temp'ral  an'  divine, 

Ye '11  gar  me  pay. 

I,  Robin,  noo  for  answer  say, 
That  Davie  gif  ye  '11  mak'  me  pay 
Sic  fearsome  sum,  ye  '11  surely  play 

The  deil  wi'  me, 
An'  leave  me  on  this  blessed  day 

No  ae  bawbee. 

See,  Davie,  gif  ye  canna*  mak' 
Some  wee  abatemen',  an'  no  tak' 
The  vera  sark  frae  aff  my  back, 

The  bairnies'  bed — 
An'  leave  me  no  ae  single  plack 

To  buy  them  bread  ? 

They  tell  me  a",  in  ilka  part, 
That  ye  're  a  chiel  o'  legal  art; 
That  buiks  o'  law  ye  hae  by  heart, 

Frae  Coke  to  Kent, 
An'  that,  guid  faith!  ye  Ml  mak'  me  smart, 

Gif  ye  're  intent! 

I  'm  no  like  ye,  a  man  o'  law, 
But  dread  it  as  the  deil's  black  claw, 
An'  sooner  wad  I  sleep  on  straw 
An'  gang  on  crutches, 

*  This  poem  was  written  in  answer  to  the  suit  of  David  Calderwoc 
(Scotchman)  vs.  Rufus  C.  Hopkins,  claiming  damages  in  the  sum  of  $80,00 
on  account  of  testimony  given  against  an  alleged  Spanish  grant  in  whi< 
Calderwood  was  interested. 


ANSWER     TO    DAVID     CALDERWOOD.    283 

Than  fa'  aneath  a  lawyer's  paw, 
Or  in  his  clutches. 

An'  for  this  reason,  I  noo  mak' 

This  proposition:  that  ye  tak' 

Ae  half  the  sum  that 's  noo  at  stak', 

An'  ca'  it  fair, 
An'  promise  that  ye  ne'er  will  spak' 

About  it  mair. 

But,  Davie,  gif  on  fight  ye 're  bent, 
An'  gif  ye  ne'er  will  be  content 
Till  ye  hae  gotten  ilka  cent 

In  guid,  hard  cash, 
Then,  by  the  ghaists  o'  Coke  an'  Kent, 

We '11  hae  a  dash! 

I  maun  admit,  in  coort  I  swoore 
In  suits  o'  Gordon  an'  o'  Moore, 
Ye'r  titles  I  had  seen  before 

An'  scann'd  'em  weel — 
An'  that  I  thought  'em  worth  na  mair 

Than  scarts  o'  keel. 

An'  noo,   the  same  I  do  aver, 

An'  on  my  aith  to  it  I  '11  swear, 

Let  come  what  may — an'  deil  ma'  care 

For  a'  ye'r  blethers; 
An'  ye  may  rave,  an'  rant,  an'  rair, 

An'  brak'  ye'r  tethers. 

An'  when  I  stan'  agin  in  coort, 

Guid  faith!  we  '11  hae  some  bonnie  sport, 

For  I  maun  testify  in  short 

Ye'r  title  's  forged; 
An'  sooth,  I  '11  gie  guid  reason  for  't 

Gif  I  am  urged. 

For,  gif  some  chiel  wad  speer  aroun', 
An'  rouk  a  wee  aneath  the  groun', 
I  '11  tak'  my  aith  there  wad  be  foun' 
What  plain  wad  tell 


284    ANSWER     TO    DAVID     CALDERIVOOD. 

That  this  same  deed  that 's  gangin'  roun' 
Is  fause  as  hell! 

I  wad  na'  hae  ye  understan' 
That  I  think  ye  hae  had  a  han' 
In  gettin'  up  this  grant  o'  Ian' 

That's  hawkit  roun', 
An'  kivers  a'  the  hills  o'  san' 

About  the  toun; 

No,  lad;  ye  no  hae  got  the  wit 
Ae  Spanish  deed  like  this  to  git, 
But  only  just  enough  to  pit 

Ye'r  foot  intil  it, 
An'  when  ye  've  foun'  ye  hae  been  bit, 

To  aiblins  rue  it. 

An'  (let  me  whisper  i'  ye'r  ear), 
Ye  'd  better,  laddie,  hae  a  care, 
For  gif  some  honest  chiel  wad  speer 

Into  the  matter — 
Guid  guide  us,  mon!  but  I  do  fear 

There  'd  be  a  clatter! 

Sae,  Davie  lad,  ye  'd  better  mak' 
The  compromise  o'  whilk  I  spak', 
An'  forty  thoosan'  shiners  tak' 

An'  ca'  it  fair, 
An'  promise  that  ye  '11  never  spak' 

About  it  mair. 

Noo,  Davie  lad,  come  fare  thee  weel; 
Come,  try  an'  be  an  honest  chiel; 
Mind  the  Command  says  "dinna  steal/' 

As  roun'  ye  're  jobbin', 
An'  then  ye  may  defy  the  deil 

An'  rhymin'  Robin! 

[  The  suit  was  dismissed.  ] 
San  Francisco,  1866. 


ALLOPATHY    AND     HOMEOPATHY. 

[TO  A  MEDICAL    STUDENT    WHO    HAD    JUST    GRADUATED.] 


YOUNG  GALEN!  so  you  've  all  the  tools, 
And,  too,  have  learned  the  savage  rules 
Taught  by  the  Allopathic  schools 

To  college  classes; 
And  think  that  Homeopaths  are  fools 

And  ignorant  asses! 

You  doubtless  now,  with  knife  and  saw, 
Can  amputate  a  leg  or  paw; 
With  lotions  soothe  an  aching  jaw; 

A  lax  can  plug — 
And,  too,  can  cram  a  grumbling  maw 

With  drastic  drug! 

Now,  as  you  've  taken  your  degree, 
And  are  from  college  classes  free, 
That  all  the  world  your  skill  may  see 

And  learn  your  fame, 
In  letters  gilt  with  an  "  M.  D." 

Hang  out  your  name! 

And,  if  on  business  you're  intent, 
And  have  an  eye  to  cent  per  cent, 
And  gathering  sheckels  is  your  bent, 

You  'd  better  "figger" 
With  some  grim  undertaking  gent 

Or  old  grave-digger. 

No  doubt,  a  bargain  you  may  drive, 

By  which  both  parties  well  would  thrive; 

For,  by  the  dead  and  not  the  live, 

The  sexton  lives, — 
Therefore,  each  death  he  can  contrive 

A  profit  gives. 


286       ALLOPATHY   AND    HOMEOPATHY. 

Now,  brother  mine,  come  fare  thee  well! 
No  doubt  at  all,  that  where  you  dwell, 
Bright  Fame,  with  trumpet-tongue,  will  tell 

What  you  have  won, 
And  show,  by  tolling  funeral  bell, 

\Vliat  you  have  done. 

San  Francisco,  1886. 


GAMBLING.* 


"  All  the  world  is  but  a  faro-table, 
And  all  mankind  but  buckers  at  the  game" 
—SHAKESPEARE  (?). 

WHAT  mean  you  by  this  silly  prate, 
Which  in  the  prints  you  've  put  of  late, 
About  our  worthy  Chief  of  State, 

Whose  even  hand 
Gives  just  alike  to  small  and  great 

O'er  all  the  land? 

Come  now,  my  honest  rhyming  friend, 
Before  a  man  to  hell  you  send, 
Awhile  to  Reason's  voice  attend; 

Come  list  to  me, 
While  I  in  doggerel  verse  defend 

Morality! 

What  signifies  the  little  game 

To  which  was  given  a  Christian  name  ? 

Don't  all  mankind  play  just  the  same 

Whene'er  they  will, 
And  when  they  win,  are  free  from  blame, 

And  honest  still  ? 

And  sure  I  am,  you  will  admit, 
That  those  who  in  high  places  sit, 
Oft  in  their  wisdom  find  it  fit 

To  lay  aside 
The  rigid  rules  by  Virtue  writ 

And  let  them  slide. 

*  To  the  author  of  the  address  to  Governor  H.  H.  Haight,  in  relation 
to  the  Mercantile  Library  Lottery,  which  address  was  in  the  shape  of  a 
satirical  poem,  accusing  the  Governor  (who  was  a  member  of  one  of  the 
Orthodox  Churches)  of  inconsistency,  in  signing  a  bill  passed  by  the 
Legislature  of  the  State,  permitting  this  lottery  to  be  held  in  violation 
of  the  State  Constitution.  This  poem  was  intended  as  a  defence  of  the 
Governor. 


CAMBLIXG. 

As  custom  runs  in  earthly  scenes, 
The  "  end  oft  justifies  the  means"; 
And  oft  success  from  Justice  screens 

In  act  of  theft; 
And  sickly  Virtue  often  gleans 

What  Vice  has  left. 

And  now,  my  friend,  I'll  prove  to  you, 
And  make  it  clear  as  sunlight,  too, 
That  since  old  Cain  his  brother  slew 

In  jealous  wrath, 
There's  ever  been  a  gambling  crew 

Upon  the  earth! 

Come,  let  us  run  in  rattling  rhyme 
Far  back  along  the  path  of  time, 
And  see  what  trace  of  pious  crime 

We  there-shall  find, 
Which  in  historic  mud  and  slime 

Is  left  behind: 

You  've  read,  no  doubt,  the  story  old, 
Which  in  some  book  is  quaintly  told, 
How  Laban  to  young  Jacob  sold 

His  fairest  daughter; 
Yet  did  from  him  the  maid  withhold, 

Though  he  had  bought  her  ? 

And  how  the  youth  made  up  the  odds, 
And  even  got  with  streaked  rods, 
And  in  deep  cunning  beat  the  tods 

'Mong  Laban's  cattle; 
And  carried  off  his  household  gods 

And  other  chattel  ? 

And  he,  who  great  Goliath  smote, 
Who  touched  a  harp  of  sweetest  note 
And  sacred  songs  of  praises  wrote, 

Once  slipped  his  foot — 
And  in  a  witching  petticoat 

Entangled  got  ? 


GAMBLING.  289 

So,  thus,  on  the  historic  page, 
We  find  that  men  of  every  age — 
The  beardless  youth,  the  hoary  sage, 

Mistakes  have  made; 
And  oft  in  fits  of  love  or  rage, 

The  deil  have  played. 

Now  let  us  bring  our  rhyming  lays 
Down  to  the  scenes  of  modern  days, 
And  take  a  glance  at  all  the  ways 

Among  mankind, 
And  learn  the  tricks  the  gamester  plays 

To  catch  the  blind: 

The  blackleg  plays  at  cards  and  dice; 
Politic  gamesters  are  more  nice, 
And  their  constituents  will  entice 

With  other  things, — 
With  champagne  cocktails  done  in  ice, 

Or  brandy  slings. 

The  lawyer  he  will  justice  see 
With  him  who  pays  the  biggest  fee, 
And  wrong  will  prove  the  right  to  be 

By  clearest  law; 
But  in  the  robe  of  poverty 

Will  find  a  flaw. 

The  tyrant  plays  with  human  bones, 
And  treads  his  march  to  human  groans, 
Nor  heeds  the  lonely  widow's  moans, 

So  he  can  make 
A  seat  secure  on  earthly  thrones 

And  win  a  stake. 

The  broker  seeks  the  rising  stocks; 
The  sportsman  seeks  the  gamest  cocks; 
The  clergyman  the  fattest  flocks 

Within  the  stall, 
And  listens  to  the  loudest  knocks 

That  on  him  call! 


290  GAMBLING. 

So,  look  around,  and  you  will  see 
That  life  is  one  great  lottery! 
That  all  of  high  and  low  degree 

Some  game  will  play, 
And  the  sole  question  seems  to  be, 

If  it  will  pay  ? 

The  people  do  the  rulers  make; 
So  candidates  their  cues  must  take 
From  those  who  do  the  dice-box  shake, 

If  they  would  win; 
And  with  a  greedy  hand  would  rake 

The  prizes  in. 

But,  don't  it  seem,  my  honest  friend, 
That,  if  these  things  you  seek  to  mend, 
You  should  commence  at  t'  other  end 

To  cure  the  cancer? 
For  fountains  pure,  clear  streams  will  send, 

As  I  will  answer. 

Let  honest  wrath  your  pen  inspire, 
And  fill  your  soul  with  burning  ire, 
That  you  may  launch  your  darts  of  fire 

Against  the  trade 
That  offers  premiums  to  the  liar 

Of  every  grade. 

But  let  not  all  your  wrath  be  shed 
On  one  devoted,  helpless  head, 
Who,  after  all  that  can  be  said, 

Has  done  no  more 
Than  follow  where  the  customs  led 

That  went  before. 

My  rhyming  rig  I  now  have  run, 
(Have  had  with  it  a  bit  of  fun), 
And  with  the  matter  I  have  done; 

So  then,  my  man, 
You  now  may  weave  the  yarn  I  've  spun 

As  best  you  can. 

San  Francisco,  1870. 


WOMAN. 


'T  WAS  in  some  volume,  quaint  and  old, 

I  read  when  but  a  child, 
A  story  how  some  woman  by 

A  serpent  was  beguiled. 

Experience  since  has  taught  me 
That  the  story  was  all  gammon, 

For  never  did  a  serpent  hiss 
That  could  outwit  a  woman. 

There  's  music  on  her  wily  tongue; 

There  's  honey  on  her  lips; 
But  he  who  tastes  the  sweetness,  dies — 

While  he  the  nectar  sips. 

Search  North,  or  South,  or  East,  or  West, 

You  '11  find  no  living  thing 
That  such  a  deadly  venom  bears 

Or  sports  so  sharp  a  sting. 

Beware  the  charm!  I  say,  beware ! 

Whoe'er  the  charmer  be — 
'Tis  deadlier  far,  than  death  distilled 

From  deadliest  Upas  tree. 

San  Francisco,  1869. 


CUERUDO.* 

[TO   MISS   FORTUNE.] 


Now,  do  your  worst,  you  heartless  wretch; 
Use  as  you  will  your  sharpest  switch, 
And  you  '11  not  see  one  muscle  twitch, 
For  I  am  now  cuerudo  ! 

Pour  on  my  head  your  bitterest  hail, 
And  sting  me  with  your  tongue,  or  tail, 
And  I  '11  but  laugh  beneath  the  mail 
That  you  have  made  cuerudo  ! 

I  've  ta'en  your  kisses,  kicks,  and  blows, 
Been  scorched  in  hell,  and  plunged  in  snows, 
1  've  trod  each  path  that  anguish  knows 
Till  I  've  become  cuerudo! 

Then  go  your  ways,  nor  waste  your  toil, 
Nor  needless  thus  your  fingers  soil, 
For  all  the  blows  you  give  recoil — 
And  echo  but  cuerudo  ! 

San  Francisco,  1869. 

*  The  Spanish  word  "  cuero"  means  hidf ;  its  derivative  "  cuerudi 
means  hide-thickened.  When  a  Spaniard  is  so  whipped  of  fortune  as  to 
insensate  to  her  blows,  instead  of  saying, 

"  Lay  on,  Macduff; 

And  damned  be  him  who  first  cries,  '  Hold,  enough  !  '  " 
he  says  :  "  Strike  till  you  're  tired  !  I  care  not ;  for  I  am  now  cuerudo:' 


SLANDER. 


BEWARE  that  thing!  I  say,  beware ! 
And  of  its  presence  have  a  care, 
For  if  it  touch  you,  like  the  skunk, 
'Twill  squirt  on  you  what  it  has  drunk. 

It  worms  its  way,  and  creeping  crawls, 
And  seeks  for  filth  in  huts  and  halls, 
And  makes  a  ball  of  excrement 
From  things  of  vilest  compound  sent. 

Its  maw  it  crams  with  the  vile  filth 
That  it  has  gathered  thus  by  stealth, 
But  to  disgorge  the  stinking  mass 
On  any  one  it  chance  to  pass. 

It  plasters  on  the  old  and  young 
The  filthy  slime  of  its  vile  tongue; 
And,  like  a  ghoul,  digs  up  the  dead 
On  which  the  loathsome  worm  has  fed. 

A  creature  low,  of  foulest  breed, 
And  spawned  in  stench,  from  vilest  seed, 
A  crawling  snake,  whose  slimy  trail 
Is  seen  where'er  it  drags  its  tail. 

Then  ye  who  wish  for  peace  on  earth, 
Give  this  vile  thing  the  widest  berth; 
If  ye  do  not,  as  sure  as  death^ 
Ye  '11  get  a  blast  of  its  foul  breath. 

San  Francisco,  February  2,  1894. 


FASHION. 


IN  the  good  old  times  (I  've  heard  my  grandmother  say), 
When  maidens  arose  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
Put  on  their  thick  shoes,  and  straight  sallied  out 
To  see  what  the  cows  and  the  calves  were  about— 

That  their  cheeks  they  were  rosy,  their  limbs  they  wei 

strong, 

They  could  dance  you  a  reel,  or  sing  you  a  song; 
A  dinner  could  get,  a  garment  could  make, 
And  their  turn,  on  a  pinch,  at  the  washtub  could  take. 

That  the  only  medicine  that  ever  they  took, 
Was  prepared  in  the  kitchen  and  giv'n  by  the  cook; 
That  no  bear's-grease  they  put  on  their  soft,  curling  hair, 
And  their  cheeks  they  were  painted  by  sunshine  and  air! 

That  't  was  customary  then,  (sometimes  at  least), 
For  the  wife  to  make  her  husband  a  vest, — 
His  stockings  to  darn,  his  troubles  to  share, 
And  do  all  that  she  could  to  relieve  him  from  care. 

That  she  nursed  her  own  children,  and  soothed  them  t 

rest, 

And  hushed  them  to  sleep  upon  her  own  breast; 
Taught  them  to  read,  and  taught  them  their  prayers, 
And  gave  them  all  of  a  fond  mother's  cares. 

And  if  to  fair  or  to  market  she  went, 

She  wanted  no  younger  or  gayer  gallant 

Than  the  spouse  of  her  youth,  whom  she  always  caressed, 

Though  his  manners  were  plain,  and  plain  he  was  dressec 

The  young  people  then,  they  always  were  kind 
To  the  sick  and  the  poor,  the  lame  and  the  blind; 
That  they  heard  with  respect  the  voice  of  the  sage, 
And  always  were  silent  in  the  presence  of  age. 


FASHION.  295 

But  now,  she  said, — (and  she  drew  a  long  sigh, 
Her  spectacles  wiped,  and  her  knitting  put  by), 
Those  good  old  times,  I  am  sorry  to  say, — 
Those  good  old  times  have  all  passed  away! 

Young  damsels  now  turn  the  night  into  day, 
Which  they  spend  at  the  party,  the  ball,  or  the  play, 
Wasting  the  hours  they  should  spend  in  their  beds 
By  getting  soft  nonsense  crammed  into  their  heads. 

They  know  not  the  use  of  thread  or  of  yarn, 
A  garment  can't  make,  nor  a  stocking  can  darn; 
Can't  even  tell  you  where  apples  are  found, 
If  gathered  from  frees,  or  dug  from  the  ground  ! 

They  claw  the  piano  till  it  sounds  like  a  gong, 
And  scream  out  the  words  of  the  last  published  song; 
But  no  mortal  can  tell,  (nor  matters  it  much), 
Whether  it 's  English,  or  French,  Italian,  or  Dutch! 

But  don't  ask  them  to  sing  an  old-fashioned  tune — 

Such  as  the   "Braes  o'    Balquither,"   or   "Sweet   Bonnie 

Doon,"  — 

They  '11  laugh  in  your  face,  and  stare  at  you  straight, 
And  tell  you  such  things  are  quite  out  of  date. 

The  wife  spends  her  days  in  fashionable  calls, 
Her  nights  are  devoted  to  parties  and  balls; 
She  knows  not,  nor  cares  how  her  children  may  fare, 
But  she  leaves  them  alone  to  a  hireling's  care. 

Her  husband  is  one  who  indeed  that  she  loves, 

For  he  supplies  her  with  silks,  with  shawls,  and  with  gloves; 

As  to  all  other  things  that  she  needs,  or  she  wants, 

She  gets  them  horn  younger  and  gayer  gallants. 

She  is  never  at  home,  except  when  it  rains, 
And  then  she  's  complaining  of  aches  and  of  pains; 
The  doctor  is  sent  for — who,  quite  at  his  ease, 
Tells  her  she  's  got  some  fashionable  disease — 

Such  as  dyspepsia,  bronchitis,  or  goodness  knows  what! — 
Some  long,  crabbed  name,  that  now  I  've  forgot, 


296  FASHION. 

For  although  'tis  now  on  every  one's  tongue, 

I  'm  sure  't  was  unknown  when  grandma  was  young. 

The  doctor  he  tells  her  to  lie  very  still, 
To  swallow  a  draught,  or  perhaps  take  a  pill; 
That  no  immediate  danger  he  thinks  he  can  see, 
Hut  that  without  great  care,  perhaps  there  might  be! 

San  Francisco,  1862. 


THE   MISER. 


A  MISER  lost  a  penny  with  the  devil  at  play, 

And  offered  his  soul  to  the  devil  for  pay, 

"  D— n  your  soul!  "  quoth  old  Nick;  "  pay  me  the  stake! 

For  your  soul  is  n't  worth  the  hell-room  't  would  take." 

San  Francisco,  1868. 


FREAKS     OF     FORTUNE. 


"  O  Fortune  t  Fortune!  all  men  call  thee  fickle.'1' 

—SHAKESPEARE. 

HE  was  a  man  of  sterling  worth, 
And  bleak  New  England  gave  him  birth, 
And  prudent  habits  there  he  learned 
Gave  him  the  name  he  justly  earned; 
And  she,  his  spouse,  a  daughter  was 
Of  that  same  land  of  stringent  laws, 
Whose  restless  sons  o'er  all  the  earth 
Have  famous  made  their  land  of  birth; 
On  ocean  wave,  in  mountain  lands, 
On  sunny  plain  and  desert  sands, 
From  Northern  climes  'mid  Arctic  snows 
To  where  the  feathery  palm-tree  grows. 

Time  onward  rolled — while  toiling  they 
With  prudence  trod  life's  rugged  way, 
Till  Fortune  bright,  with  magic  wand, 
Showed  to  their  view  a  golden  land 
Far  brighter  than  the  barren  soil 
On  which  New  England  farmers  toil. 

They  left  that  land  of  pine-clad  hills, 

Of  stony  fields  and  mountain  rills, 

Where  loud  the  ocean  billows  roar 

Upon  a  rugged  rock-bound  shore, 

And  came  to  this  far  western  land 

Whose  shores  were  bright  with  golden  sand. 

Now,  having  by  experience  known, 
That  one  but  reaps  where  he  has  sown, 
They  took  the  swelling  tide  at  flood — 
By  prudence  made  their  reck'ning  good, 
The  current  caught — and  on  it  sped 
The  way  which  them  to  fortune  led! 


298  1-K EAR'S    OF    FORTUNE. 

Far-seeing  he,  with  wisdom  laid 
Such  plans  as  a  vast  fortune  made; 
Hut  still  for  pomp  he  did  not  care, 
Though  many  times  a  millionaire. 

Hut  who  so  wise  that  he  can  say 

What  freaks  Dame  Fortune  will  not  play! 

The  present  we  may  clearly  see, 

But  not  what  will  to-morrow  be! 

No  plan  that  man  has  ever  tried, 
Can  turn  the  dart  of  Death  aside: 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low, 
When  they  are  summoned,  all  must  go, 
And  leave  their  goods  of  every  kind 
To  those  whom  they  have  left  behind. 

While  still  life's  currents  freshly  ran, 

And  while  engaged  in  scheme  and  plan, 

Azrael's  fatal  arrow  sped— 

The  millionaire  slept  with  the  dead — 

Of  all  that  Fortune  to  him  gave, 

To  him  was  left  alone  a  grave; 

His  power  it  had  forever  passed 

To  use  the  wealth  he  had  amassed, 

Or  to  direct  what  should  be  done 

With  all  on  earth  that  he  had  won. 

With  all  his  wealth,  he  now  at  last, 
Like  withered  leaf  aside  was  cast! 

And  thus  the  wife,  whose  early  years 
Familiar  were  with  carking  cares, 
In  her  old  age,  by  Fortune's  wand, 
Had  untold  gold  at  her  command. 

Such  are  the  freaks  Dame  Fortune  plays 
With  man  in  all  his  earthly  ways! 

With  yearning  strong  again  to  be 
Where  pine-clad  hills  o'erlook  the  sea, 
She  eastward  turned  her  age*d  face 


FREAKS    OF    FORTUNE.  299 

And  sought  again  her  native  place, 
And  there  she  reared  a  dwelling  grand, 
The  proudest  one  in  all  the  land, 
That  there  her  widowed  days  might  be 
In  comfort  spent  and  luxury. 

'Tis  said,  that  Death  once,  long  ago, 
(But  when  it  was  I  do  not  know), 
While  wandering  by  the  Stygian  river, 
Some  arrows  got  from  Cupid's  quiver; 
And  this  is  why,  (as  I  've  been  told), 
Queer  pranks  are  played  by  young  and  old; 
Why  Cupid  often  seeks  to  reign 
Where  Death  by  right  holds  his  domain; 
Why  oft  December  tries  to  play 
Upon  the  rosy  breast  of  May! 

If  this  be  truth,  or  only  fable, 

To  answer  now  I  am  not  able; 

But  this,  I  know:  such  things  I  've  seen 

As  go  to  show  it  might  have  been. 

That  this  great  palace  proud  and  grand 
Might  long  defy  Time's  wasting  hand, 
'T  was  needful  that  some  architect 
Its  plans  and  structure  should  direct, 
That  grace  and  beauty  thus  might  be 
Combined  with  strict  utility. 

Such  architect  was  quickly  found, 
Who  soon  appeared  upon  the  ground, 
And  went  to  work  with  all  his  skill 
To  carry  out  the  widow's  will. 

Although  he  'd  passed  the  boyish  time, 
He  still  was  in  his  manhood's  prime; 
For  ruthless  Time  upon  his  head 
As  yet  no  wintry  snows  had  shed. 

But  who  '11  account  for  Fortune's  tricks? 
The  architect  he  builds  with  bricks! 


300  FREAKS    OF    FORTUNE. 

But  Fortune  works  by  other  plan 
In  shaping  the  affairs  of  man. 

Ere  the  grand  building  work  was  done, 
The  widow's  glamoured  heart  was  won! 
The  architect  had  found  a  bride 
And  a  palatial  home  beside. 

How  the  hymeneal  moments  fled, 
And  how  the  wedded  season  sped, 
The  Muse  says  not;  nor  do  I  know 
If  they  flew  lightly,  or  dragged  slow. 

Few  were  the  fleeting  years  that  passed 
Ere  she  received  the  summons  last 
To  leave  at  once  the  earthly  scene 
Where  her  late  wedded  life  had  been — 

She  left  her  husband  and  her  house, 
And  went  to  join  her  former  spouse! 
But  how  they  met — none  now  that  dwell 
Upon  the  shores  of  Time  can  tell. 

Some  tears  were  at  the  funeral  shed 
Upon  the  bier  where  slept  the  dead; 
But  nothing  long  on  earth  can  last, 
And  soon  the  clouds  of  sorrow  passed. 

The  men  of  law  then  sought  to  find 
How  much  by  her  was  left  behind, 
And,  furthermore,  they  wished  to  see 
To  whom  she  'd  left  her  property! 

Of  all  the  millions  he  had  won 

By  work  in  California  done, 

The  land  where  now  his  ashes  rest 

Received  no  gift  as  a  bequest; 

The  lame,  the  blind,  the  poor,  the  old, 

.-///,  all  were  left  out  in  the  cold; 

The  little  orphans  all  forgot, 

The  widows  poor  remembered  not. 


FREAKS    OF    FORTUNE.  301 

The  crumbling  dust  within  his  grave 
Is  all  that  his  vast  fortune  gave 
To  this  fair  State,  where  it  was  made, 
And  where  its  author's  bones  are  laid. 

Most  surely,  if  the  dead  should  know 
What 's  passing  on  the  earth  below, 
The  millionaire  must  often  sigh 
At  what  on  earth  is  passing  by; 
His  stock,  his  houses,  and  his  lands 
All  passed  away  to  strangers'  hands! 

Methinks  his  ghost  is  haunting  still 
The  stately  palace  on  the  hill, 
Whose  silent  halls  are  strangers  long 
To  mirthful  voice  and  cheerful  song — 
And  as  he  wanders  through  its  halls, 
Up  from  the  past  his  memory  calls 
All  that  his  earthly  life  had  been 
In  all  the  scenes  he  'd  acted  in — 
How  he  had  toiled  from  youth  to  age, 
And  less  than  nought  had  been  his  wage. 

The  savage  leaves  his  bow  and  spear 
To  one  to  him  by  nature  dear — 

The  peasant  dies  and  leaves  his  cot, 
But  his  loved  son  is  not  forgot — 

The  hero  of  the  battle-field 

Leaves  to  his  heir  his  battered  shield — 

And  thus,  upon  tradition's  page 
Is  history  writ  of  ancient  age. 

Oh,  well  may  California  be 
Indignant  at  Dame  Fortune's  spree, 
Which  her  has  robbed  of  what  was  won 
By  work  upon  her  mountains  done! 

I  see  her  angry  Genius  now, 

With  flashing  eye  and  frowning  brow; 


302  FREAKS    OF    FORTUNE. 

I  see  the  burning  tears  of  rage 
She  sheds  o'er  her  lost  heritage; 

.-///,  all  has  gone  to  strangers'  hands 
To  be  enjoyed  in  other  lands. 

San  Francisco,  August  7,  1891. 


A    SOCIAL   CHAT   WITH   THE   DEVIL. 


ONE  night,  't  was  at  the  witching  hour, 
A  night  most  dark  and  stormy, 

I  sat  beside  my  lonely  hearth 
In  meditation  gloomy. 

The  wind  it  blew  its  wildest  note, 

The  rain  in  torrents  fell, 
And  on  the  hollow  blast  was  heard 

The  mocking  laugh  of  hell! 

As  I  sat  thus,  in  musing  mood, 

Oppressed  with  gloomy  care, 
I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  fall 

Upon  the  lonely  stair. 

Slight  heed  I  gave  the  coming  tread, 

Supposing  that  some  friend 
Had  wandered  through  the  midnight  storm 

With  me  an  hour  to  spend. 

When  suddenly,  through  all  the  place, 

The  fumes  of  sulphur  came; 
The  lamp  that  on  my  table  stood, 

Burned  with  a  ghastly  flame. 

By  this,  I  knew  the  coming  one 

To  be  some  imp  of  hell; 
But  what  he  wanted  then  with  me, 

For  my  life  I  could  not  tell. 

Dim,  and  dimmer,  grew  the  light; 

The  smell  grew  stronger,  too; 
When  suddenly,  as  by  a  spell, 

The  door  wide  open  flew! 


3o4    A    SOCIAL    CHAT  WITH   THE    DEVIL. 

In  stepped  old  Nick,  with  horns  and  hoofs, 

And  took  a  seat  by  me; 
Curled  up  his  tail  and  lit  his  pipe, 

And  spoke  right  merrily: 

"  Your  pardon,  honest  sir,"  said  he, 
"  For  this  untimely  call; 
Believe  me,  I  'm  in  friendly  mood, 
And  mean  no  harm  at  all. 

"  Just  thought  that  I  would  stop  a  while 

And  smoke  a  pipe  with  you, 
And  have  a  little  friendly  chat, 
And  take  a  glass  or  two." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  I,  "  I  'm  much  obliged,— 
Let 's  take  a  whiskey  toddy!  " 

"  Bully  for  you,  my  boy,"  said  he, 
"  For  that  I  'm  always  ready. 

"  Good  whiskey,  sir,  is  this  you  keep; 

I  've  rarely  tasted  better; 
I  thank  you,  no;  I  '11  take  it  so — 
I  do  not  care  for  water!  " 

"  And  now,"  said  I,  "  I  'd  like  to  know 

(And  sure  I  cannot  guess), 
What  urgent  business  brought  you  out 
On  such  a  night  as  this  ? " 

"  Well  may  you  ask  the  question,  sir, 

And  surely  you  are  right; 
For  nothing  but  an  urgent  call 
Could  bring  me  out  to-night. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  've  much  to  do; 

Much  business  on  my  hands; 
Now  here,  now  there,  and  everywhere. 
In  this  and  other  lands. 

"  Hut  principally  this  Civil  War 
That  desolates  the  land, 


A    SOCIAL    CHAT   WITH    THE   DEVIL.     305 

Most  claims  my  earnest,  fostering  care, 
And  most  my  helping  hand!  " 

"  Your  pardon,  sir, — I  'd  like  to  know 

Which  side  is  in  the  right  ? 
Then  be  so  kind  as  tell  me,  sir, 
For  which  party  you  do  fight?" 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for?  "  said  he, 
"  A  trifling,  puling  boy, 
Who  could  be  pleased  with  sugar-plums, 
Or  tickled  with  a  toy  ? 

"  I  'd  have  you  know,  that  in  this  strife 

I  take  the  part  of  neither; 

But,  as  best  may  suit  myself, 

I  fight  for  both,  or  either. 

"  Two  thousand  years  have  almost  fled 

Since  first  the  tidings  came, 
1  Good-will  and  peace  to  all  the  world, 

Through  Christ  the  Saviour's  name.' 

4<  I  've  fought  this  Galilean  sect; 

I  've  fought  with  bloody  hand; 
I  've  fought  it  both  with  fire  and  sword 
Through  every  pagan  land! 

"  But,  by  the  infernal  gods  of  war, 

And  by  the  imps  of  hell! 
I  have  been  worsted  in  the  strife, 
As  my  thinned  ranks  can  tell. 

' '  But  now,  in  this  most  Christian  land, 
Where  fierce  the  strife  has  burned, 
The  tide  of  battle  has  at  last 
To  other  channels  turned. 

"  This  Christian  folk  have  let  me  up,    • 

And  pitched  into  each  other; 
The  father's  hand  against  the  son, 
The  brother's  'gainst  the  brother! 


306    A    SOCIAL    CHAT  WITH   THE   DEVIL. 

"  I  told  you,  sir,  that  in  this  strife 

I  took  the  part  of  neither, 
But  that,  as  best  might  suit  myself, 
I  fought  for  both,  or  either — 

"  Don't  care  a  d — n  which  party  wins; 

Buckra-man,  or  nigger; 
All  one  to  me  are  European, 
Congo-man,  or  digger! 

"  But  still  I  work  both  night  and  day 

To  keep  the  war  a-waging, 
And  stir  my  stumps  with  might  and  main 
To  keep  the  battle  raging. 

"  I  whisper  in  the  parson's  ear, 

And  straight  he  howls  for  blood! 
And  makes  a  flaming  speech  for  war 
Within  the  house  of  God! 

"  And  thus  the  work  goes  bravely  on, 

In  country,  town,  and  village; 
Some  are  fighting,  some  are  weeping, 
And  some  engage  in  pillage. 

"  And  fierce  and  fiercer  grows  the  strife, 

While  Death  a  harvest  reaps, 
And  the  fiery  storm  of  ruin 
O'er  all  the  country  sweeps. 

"  And  mingled  with  the  voice  of  war 

Is  heard  the  widow's  sigh, 
And  by  the  smouldering  ruins,  too, 
The  homeless  orphans  cry. 

"  And  carrion  birds,  with  hungry  beaks, 

Are  gathering  from  afar, 
To  make  a  foul  and  gory  feast 
On  the  red  fields  of  war. 

"  Oh,  how  I  rub  my  hands  with  glee, 
To  see  this  glorious  sight, 


A   SOCIAL    CHAT   WITH    THE   DEVIL.     307 

And  laugh,  and  shout,  with  merry  joy, 
To  watch  these  Christians  fight! 

"  For  well  they  do  their  bloody  work 

As  I  could  have  it  done; 
Nor  man,  nor  devil,  can  do  more 
To  help  my  kingdom  on. 

"  But  the  hour  is  late,  and  I  must  go; 

So  I  '11  be  on  the  jog — 
And,  as  its  raining^  I  will  take 
Another  glass  of  grog!" 

San  Francisco,  1862. 


PRAYER    OF    THE    REV.    EZEKIEL   MUC- 
KLEWRATH. 


MAKE  bare  Thine  arm,  O  Lord  most  high, 
To  smite  the  rebels  hip  and  thigh; 
Let  all  their  homes  in  ruins  lie, 

And  desolation; 
Let  not  the  cursed  crew  come  nigh 

To  Thy  salvation! 

Destroy  them,  Lord,  both  great  and  small, 
Both  old  and  young,  both  short  and  tall, 
And  let  Thy  fiercest  vengeance  fall 

On  all  the  race; 
And  hear  them  not  when  they  do  call 

On  Thee  for  grace! 

Waste  them,  O  Lord,  with  fire  and  sword; 
Blast  them,  we  pray,  in  bed  and  board; 
And  let  the  damned  heathen  horde 

With  devils  dwell; 
Where  they  may  weep  and  howl,  O  Lord, 

In  hottest  hell! 

But  Lord,  we  pray  Thee,  turn  Thy  face 
Towards  Thy  chosen  colored  race, 
Vouchsafe  to  them  the  special  grace 

That  mercy  sends, 
And  give  to  them  a  goodly  place 

Among  Thy  friends! 

O  guard  them  by  Thy  mighty  hand, 
Till  they  wax  strong  upon  the  land, 
And  like  a  mighty  bulwark  stand 

Of  saintly  odor, 
To  banish  far  the  heathen  band 

From  all  our  border! 


PRAYER  OF  EZEKIEL  MUCKLEWRATH.    309 

Move  them,  O  Lord,  we  humbly  pray, 
To  mix  their  blood  with  our  poor  clay, 
That  we,  ere  long,  might  be  like  they, 

"A  chosen  race," 
And  in  this  great  millennial  day 
Receive  Thy  grace! 

Dismiss  us  with  Thy  blessing,  Lord; 
Protect  us  in  our  homes  and  hoard; 
Guard  us  in  our  bed  and  board, 

Till  once  again 
We  meet  to  hear  Thy  holy  Word; 

Amen!    Amen! 

San  Francisco,  1862. 


UNCLE   SAMUEL'S   FARM. 


UNCLE  SAMUEL  was  a  farmer,  sir; 

A  worthy  man  was  he, 
And  true  and  honest  was  he,  too, 

As  any  man  could  be. 

He  had  a  lot  of  strapping  sons, 

With  brawny  arms  for  toil; 
And  they  did  tend  his  flocks  and  herds, 

And  till  his  fruitful  soil. 

He  had,  besides  his  sturdy  boys, 

A  batch  of  blooming  girls; 
And  some  of  them  had  raven  hair, 

And  some  had  flaxen  curls. 

He  loved  to  hunt,  he  loved  to  fish, 
He  loved  his  whiskey-toddy — 

And,  too,  he  loved  a  little  sport 
As  well  as  anybody. 

But  still  a  kindly  will  he  bore, 

And  strict  obedience  asked 
From  boy  and  beast,  and  serving-man, 

Yet  none  were  overtasked. 

It  happened  once  upon  a  time — 

'T  was  on  a  holiday — 
He  with  his  rod  a-fishing  went, 

And  left  the  boys  at  play; 

But  bade  them  well  to  watch  the  farm, 
And  see  the  gates  were  shut, 

And  that  the  neighbors'  pigs  did  not 
Into  the  garden  get. 

And,  too,  he  gave  his  rattling  boys 
Strict  charges  not  to  fight, 


UNCLE   SAMUEL'S   FARM.  311 

And  raise  the  devil  on  the  place 
When  he  was  out  of  sight. 

Now  Abe  and  Jeff,  the  biggest  boys, 

Were  somewhat  on  the  muscle, 
And  when  the  old  man's  back  was  turned, 

They  always  had  a  tussle. 

And  sometimes,  too,  this  friendly  bout 

Would  turn  into  a  row,- 
If  one  should  chance  upon  his  nose 

To  get  an  ugly  blow. 

And  often,  too,  they  had  a  quarrel 

About  a  pet  black  ram, 
Which  had  been  brought  from  foreign  parts 

And  sold  to  Uncle  Sam. 

Now  Jeff,  he  swore  the  colored  ram 

Was  of  inferior  stock, 
And,  if  allowed  to  run  at  large, 

That  he  would  taint  the  flock; 

While  Abe  he  swore  the  stock  was  good 

As  any  stock  could  be, 
And  that  between  the  white  and  black, 

No  difference  he  could  see. 

One  angry  word  brought  on  another; 

At  length  they  fell  to  blows, 
When  Abe  soon  got  a  blackened  eye 

And  Jeff  a  bloody  nose. 

The  younger  boys,  they  then  mixed  in, 

And  bruised  and  banged  around, 
Till  half  of  them  had  bloody  mugs 

And  half  were  on  the  ground. 

Then  all  the  dogs  began  to  bark, 

The  cocks  began  to  crow, 
The  brindled  bull  began  to  bellow, 

The  cows  began  to  low; 


312  UNCLE  SAMUEL'S  FA  KM. 

And  such  a  shindy  there  was  raised 

Upon  the  whole  plantation, 
As  ne'er  before  was  ever  seen 

In  any  Christian  nation. 

Now  utter  ruin  had  been  wrought 

On  Uncle  Samuel's  farm, 
And  all  the  neighboring  farmers,  too, 

Perchance  had  come  to  harm. 

But  so  it  happened  on  this  day, 

The  fish  were  easy  caught, 
And  Uncle  Samuel  therefore  soon 

Had  taken  all  he  sought. 

And,  by  good  luck, — in  nick  of  time — 
When  the  row  was  at  its  height, 

The  old  man,  with  his  string  of  fish, 
Came  all  at  once  in  sight. 

But  when  he  saw  the  bloody  broil, 
He  quickly  dropped  his  perch, 

And  with  a  most  determined  air 
He  seized  a  rod  of  birch. 

He  spoke  not  to  the  angry  boys, 

But  did  among  them  dash, 
And  with  a  strong  and  vigorous  arm 

He  did  them  soundly  thrash. 

The  boys  well  knew  the  old  man's  blows, 
Which  on  their  backs  did  shower, 

And  so  they  quickly  begged  for  grace, 
For  well  they  knew  his  power. 

"  Take  that!  and  that!!  and  that!!!  you  rogues! 

I  '11  make  you  dance  still  faster; 
I  '11  let  you  know,  my  larking  lads, 
That  Uncle  Sam  is  master! 

"  Come,  come,  no  words;  you  scoundrels  you, 
Or  I  will  give  you  more! 


UNCLE   SAMUELS  FARM.  313 

I  '11  baste  you  till  you  're  black  and  blue, 
And  till  your  sides  are  sore. 

"  A  pretty  mess  you  've  got  things  in, 

You  worthless  young  spalpeens! 
Cannot  you  see  the  Gallic  cock* 
Is  scratching  up  our  beans? 

"  And  don't  you  know  the  English  bull 

Is  prowling  all  around, 
Destroying  all  our  garden  stuff, 
And  tearing  up  the  ground  ? 

"  And,  d — n  you!  can  't  you  plainly  see 

That  you  '11  disgrace  our  morals, 
And  bring  discredit  on  the  farm 
By  these — your  senseless  quarrels  ? 

"  Now  quickly  march  without  delay 

And  put  all  things  to  right, 
Or,  by  my  halidom,  I  swear, 
You  '11  get  no  grub  to-night; 

"  And  if  I  hear  another  word 

About  that  cursed  ram, 
You  '11  be  sorry,  rest  assured,  or 
My  name  's  not  Uncle  Sam! " 

San  Francisco,  1863. 

*  Maximilian  in  Mexico. 


TO    A    LAND-BIRD   AT   SEA. 


BIRD  of  the  sunny  isle!  oh  why  dost  thou  roam 
So  far  away  from  thy  green  mountain  home  ? 
Oh,  why  hast  thou  left  the  bright  orange  grove 
Where  thy  mates  still  warble  their  notes  of  love? 

On  the  crest  of  the  billow  the  sea-bird  may  sleep, 
When  the  voice  of  the  tempest  is  loud  on  the  deep; 
It  fears  not  the  winds,  as  wildly  they  rave, 
For  its  place  of  repose  is  the  breast  of  the  wave! 

But  thou  canst  not  rest  where  the  wind  in  its  wrath 
Leaves  the  foam-covered  wave  on  its  desolate  path, 
Where  the  howl  of  the  tempest  and  the  voice  of  the  gale 
Mingle  darkly  and  wild  with  the  storm-spirits'  wail! 

Then  return  to  thy  home,  where  the  bright  orange  grows 
While  the  dews  of  the  morning  are  fresh  on  the  rose; 
Return  to  thy  mate,  who  is  sad  for  thee  now, 
As  lonely  she  sits  on  the  desolate  bough. 

Return!  while  the  storm  is  hushed  on  the  deep, 
And  calm  in  their  rest  the  dark  billows  sleep; 
Return!  ere  the  voice  of  the  tempest  be  heard; 
Return  to  thy  home,  lone-wandering  bird. 

On  the  West  Indian  Seas,  September,  1848. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    LAMENT. 


As  THE  song  of  the  lark 

In  the  bright  summer  morn, 
When  the  dew  's  on  the  heather, 

And  the  bloom  's  on  the  thorn- 
My  heart  it  was  lightsome 

And  merry  with  glee, 
For  dearer  than  life 

Was  young  Jennie  to  me. 

We  tended  our  flocks 

In  the  long  summer  days, 
And  gathered  fresh  daisies 

On  the  bright,  sunny  braes; 
We  knew  not  of  grief, 

Nor  dreamed  we  of  sorrow; 
We  were  happy  to-day — 

Nor  thought  of  to-morrow. 

The  sun  it  still  shines 

In  the  long  summer  days, 
And  the  daisies  still  bloom 

On  the  green,  sunny  braes; 
But  the  sun  shines  coldly 

On  meadow  and  lea, 
And  though  flowers  still  bloom, 

They  bloom  not  for  me. 

For  Jennie  now  sleeps 

With  the  turf  o'er  her  breast; 
In  the  churchyard  old 

They  have  laid  her  to  rest; 
And  the  green  grass  grows, 

And  the  willow  now  weeps 
O'er  the  lone,  shady  spot 

Where  Jennie  now  sleeps. 


3i6  THE   SHEPHERDS  LAMENT. 

So,  I  gather  no  more 

In  the  long  summer  days 
The  daisies  that  bloom 

On  the  green,  sunny  braes; 
For  the  sunshine  is  cold 

And  shaded  with  gloom, 
And  the  flowers  have  all  lost 

Their  freshness  of  bloom. 

San  Francisco,  1884. 


ADIEU    TO    THEE,    EFFIE  ! 


ADIEU  to  thee,  Effie!  sweet  charmer,  adieu! 

I  bid  thee,  fair  siren,  good-bye! 
One  falser  than  thou  great  Nature  ne'er  made, 

Nor  yet  one  more  silly  than  I. 

A  lesson  from  thee,  at  least,  I  have  learned, — 
'Twill  last  me  (I  think)  for  a  while; 

'T  will  be  long  ere  again  a  siren  bewitch  me, 
Or  a  serpent  again  me  beguile! 

And  now,  as  I  leave  thee,  this  counsel  I  give: 
Remember,  while  weaving  your  toils, 

That  the  blow  that's  given  with  heartless  intent, 
Sometimes  with  a  vengeance  recoils. 

Kentucky,  1835. 


THE     BROKEN     HEART. 


I  GAVE  to  thee  a  guileless  heart, 

I  gave  it  all  to  thee, 
And  thought  that  thou  wouldst  prize  the  gift, 

That  it  would  cherished  be! 

A  little  while  you  toyed  with  it 

In  cruel,  heartless  play, 
Then,  as  a  soiled  and  worthless  thing, 

You  cast  the  gift  away! 

It  was  a  cruel  thing  to  do, 

A  cruel,  heartless  thing, 
Upon  a  guileless,  gentle  heart 

Such  bitter  woe  to  bring. 

Go — leave  me  now,  and  bear  with  thee, 

Where'er  on  earth  thou  art, 
The  memory  of  your  triumph  o'er 

A  gentle,  trusting  heart. 


Kentucky,  1835. 


RECOLLECTIONS     OF     CHILDHOOD. 


WITHIN  a  sunny  woodland  vale, 

Shut  out  from  worldly  view, 
I  knew  a  little  garden  spot 

Where  sweetest  flowrets  grew. 

And  well  I  loved  that  quiet  place, 

And  well  I  love  it  still, — 
For  in  that  sunny  corner  yet, 

The  sweetest  memories  dwell. 

Kind  ones  had  planted  there  the  rose, 

And  nurtured  it  with  care, 
And  breathed  the  balmy  breath  of  love 

Upon  the  lily  fair. 

And  gentle  voices  there  had  made 

Sweet  music  to  my  ear, 
And  spoke  the  words  of  kindness,  which 

I  never  more  shall  hear. 

That  garden  is  a  desert  now, 

Alone  the  thistle  grows 
Where  once  the  crystal  drops  of  morn 

Drank  beauty  from  the  rose! 

And  there  no  more  the  voice  of  love 
The  sorrowing  heart  will  cheer, 

Or  kindness,  with  a  gentle  hand, 
Wipe  off  the  falling  tear. 

Ah,  yes!  the  rose  is  withered  now; 

The  voice  of  love  is  o'er, 
And  in  that  lonely  garden  spot 

The  lily  blooms  no  more; 

But  Memory  fondly  lingers  still 
Around  that  holy  place, 


320        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

And  Fancy  paints  again  the  scenes 
That  time  cannot  efface — 

No;  never  from  my  soul  will  pass 
The  memory  of  that  spot, 

Till  life's  tumultuous  scenes  are  o'er, 
And  its  wild  dreams  forgot. 

For  never  more  the  wanderer's  head 
May  find  such  sweet  repose, 

As  in  that  bower  where  gentle  hands 
Once  twined  the  blooming  rose. 

And  never  more  the  wanderer's  foot 
So  sweet  a  spot  may  tread, 

As  where  those  lovely  blooming  flowers 
Their  early  fragrance  shed. 

Jackson,  Mississippi,  1849. 


THE  WANDERER'S  DREAM  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  wanderer,  on  a  weary  couch 

In  restless  slumbers  lay, 
And  while  his  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 

His  thoughts  were  far  away! 

His  dreams  were  of  the  flowery  fields, 

And  of  the  sunny  glade; 
The  shady  woods  and  meadows  green, 

Where  he  in  childhood  played. 

Again  he  felt  the  summer  breeze, 

And  heard  its  gentle  sigh, 
As  rustling  through  the  waving  corn 

It  mumured  softly  by; 

Again,  as  when  a  child,  he  sat 

Beneath  the  oak  to  rest, 
To  listen  to  the  humming  bee, 

And  watch  the  robin's  nest; 

To  gaze  upon  the  fleecy  clouds 

As  they  were  floating  by, 
And  watch  their  ever-changing  forms 

Upon  the  summer  sky; 

Again  beside  the  crystal  brook, 
Which  through  the  meadow  flows, 

He  chased  the  gilded  butterfly 
And  plucked  the  blooming  rose; 

And  heard  the  mower's  ringing  scythe, 

The  reaper's  merry  lay, 
And  with  his  little  playmates  romped 

Upon  the  new-mown  hay. 

At  length,  when  wearied  with  his  sports, 
He  sought  the  little  wood, 


322  THE    WANDERERS  DREAM. 

Where  close  beside  a  crystal  spring 
His  native  cottage  stood. 

There  oft  his  mother's  tender  voice 
Had  soothed  his  infant  rest, 

As,  list'ning  to  her  gentle  songs, 
He  lay  upon  her  breast! 

With  weary  foot  he  passed  the  stile, 
And  crossed  the  little  yard 

Where  first  his  infant  feet  had  learned 
To  tread  the  grassy  sward. 

But  now,  alas!  no  mother's  voice 

A  gentle  greeting  gave; 
His  cottage  home  was  desolate, 

And  lonely  as  the  grave. 

Wild  weeds  were  growing  by  the  door 
And  by  the  garden  gate, 

And  dreary  was  the  cricket's  song 
Within  the  empty  grate. 

He  called  upon  his  mother  then, — 
Alas!  she  heard  him  not, 

For  in  that  silent  cottage  hall 
Her  name  was  now  forgot. 

Then  darkly  o'er  the  sleeper's  brow 
A  shade  of  sorrow  passed, 

And  on  his  rough  and  sunburnt  cheeks 
The  teardrops  gathered  fast. 

When,  with  a  sudden  start,  he  woke 
From  out  his  troubled  sleep, 

To  listen  to  the  howling  storm 
Upon  the  midnight  deep! 

And  long  it  was  ere  sleep  again 
His  weary  eyelids  pressed, 

For  sadd'ning  thoughts  of  other  days 
Weighed  darkly  on  his  breast. 


THE    WANDERER'S   DREAM.  323 

And  still  his  rough  and  sunburnt  cheeks 

Were  wet  with  bitter  tears, 
As  Memory  with  her  magic  voice 

Called  back  his  early  years. 

On  the  South  Atlantic  Ocean,  May,  1850. 


THE     WILLOW-TREE. 


COME,  Nature,  now  shake  up  the  glass, 
That  I  its  bottom  sands  may  see! 

For  I  am  faint,  and  fain  would  rest 
Beneath  yon  drooping  willow-tree. 

The  place  is  quiet,  cool,  and  damp, 
And  it  may  bring  repose  to  me; 

So,  Nature,  then,  oh,  let  me  go 
And  rest  beneath  that  willow-tree! 

I  'm  weary,  old,  and  worn  with  toil; 

I  nothing  more  can  do  for  thee — 
Kind  Nature,  then,  oh,  let  me  go 

And  sleep  beneath  that  willow-tree! 

Perchance,  I  may  not  wake  again! 

But  I  '11  content  and  happy  be, 
Though  I  should  sleep  a  dreamless  sleep 

Beneath  that  drooping  willow-tree. 

So,  Nature,  then,  shake  up  the  glass, 
That  I  its  bottom  sands  may  see! 

For  I  am  faint,  and  fain  would  rest 
Beneath  yon  drooping  willow-tree. 


San  Francisco,  1869. 


THE    POET    AT    HOME. 


Now,  Maggie,  wife,  bring  me  my  pipe, 

And  brew  the  barley  bree; 
Let  all  the  youngsters  round  me  come; 

Put  Clem  upon  my  knee! 

Adown  the  hill  fling  gloomy  care; 

Come,  let  your  hearts  be  light! 
And  we  will  have  a  bonnie  song, 

And  make  a  cheerful  night. 

My  youthful  years  have  passed  away; 

Old  age  comes  on  apace; 
I  bear  his  mark  upon  my  brow, 

His  stamp  upon  my  face. 

Yet,  what  care  I!  the  wrinkled  Eld 

Can  never  make  me  old, 
Nor  can  his  frosty  breath,  I  swear! 

E'er  make  my  heart  grow  cold. 

The  calf-skin  covering  of  the  book 

May  be  all  soiled  with  age, 
But  still  the  print  be  bright  and  good, 

And  clear  on  every  page. 

And,  thus,  the  brow  may  furrowed  be, 

The  step  no  longer  light, 
While  still  the  heart  beats  high  with  hope 

And  still  the  eye  is  bright. 

Give  me  another  glass,  my  dear! 

And  fill  my  pipe  again! 
And  I  to  all  my  household  gods 

Will  sing  a  cheering  strain! 

Oh,  Maggie  dear!  the  youngsters  now 
Are  growing  large  and  strong; 


326  THE    POET  AT  HO  MI.. 

The  merry,  rattling  rogues,  I  ween, 
Will  not  require  us  long. 

Then  we  will  in  the  corner  sit, 

Nor  care  for  anybody, 
And  quietly  you  will  take  your  tea, 

And  I  will  take  my  toddy. 

And,  in  the  gloaming  hours  of  life, 
We  then  may  find  repose; 

Like  as  a  day  of  cloud  and  storm 
Oft  has  a  quiet  close. 

Then,  here 's  a  health  to  those  I  love! 

The  darlings  of  my  soul; 
For  them  I  'd  freely  drain  this  heart 

As  I  now  drain  this  bowl! 

A  brimming  health!  I  drink,  my  dears,- 

Still  may  ye  happy  be, 
When  I  have  laid  me  down  to  rest 

Beneath  the  willow-tree. 

Now,  Harry,  lad,  stand  up,  my  boy! 

Thy  father  speaks  to  thee; 
Come,  fill  a  cup  of  Rhenish  wine 

And  drink  a  health  to  me! 

That  wild  and  dancing  eye  of  thine 

Tells  of  a  restless  soul, 
That  on  the  stormy  path  of  life 

But  ill  will  brook  control. 

Aye;  of  a  temper  keen  it  tells, 

As  edge  of  finest  blade 
That  e'er  was  in  Toledo  forged 

Or  in  Damascus  made. 

They  say  thy  lithe  and  slender  form 
Thy  father's  image  bears, 

And  that  thy  fiery  spirit,  too, 
His  wayward  humor  shares — 


THE    POET  AT  HOME.  327 

Well,  be  it  so;  I  cannot  now 

Call  back  this  gift  to  thee, 
Or  e'er,  perchance,  to  thee  can  give 

A  better  legacy. 

Now,  Hal!  my  boy,  come  swear  to  me, 

When  on  thy  father's  head 
The  last  cold,  bitter  blast  of  life 

Its  wintry  snows  has  shed — 

That  thou,  with  manly  heart  and  soul, 

And  with  a  vigorous  arm, 
Will  guard  thy  father's  jewels  well 

And  shelter  them  from  harm! 

Come,  Clara,  now,  a  kiss  from  thee! 

A  gentle  kiss,  my  dear, 
And  let  that  lisping  voice  of  thine 

Fall  sweetly  on  mine  ear. 

Thy  rosy  cheek  to  mine,  my  love; 

Thou  art  a  little  fawn! 
And  thy  bright  face  is  mild  and  sweet 

As  is  the  early  dawn. 

The  crystal  drop  of  morning  dew 

That  on  the  rosebud  lies, 
Not  purer  is  than  thy  young  soul, 

Or  brighter  than  thine  eyes! 

Thy  soul 's  a  fount  of  sweetest  love 

Where  crystal  waters  well; 
Thy  mind  's  a  little  fragrant  bower 

Where  brightest  fancies  dwell; 

And  bitter  word  or  selfish  thought 

Ne'er  clouds  thy  sunny  face, 
Or  in  thy  kind  and  gentle  heart 

E'er  finds  a  resting-place. 

Fair  is  the  lily  bathed  in  dew, 
And  sweet  the  flowery  thorn, 


328  THE    POET  AT  HOME. 

And  fragrant  is  the  blushing  rose 
That  drinks  the  breath  of  morn — 

But  lily  wet  with  morning  dew, 

The  rosebud  on  its  tree, 
Is  not  so  fair  or  half  so  sweet 

As  thy  bright  face  to  me. 

And  where  's  my  little  elfin  thing, 
With  soft  and  curly  hair — 

Wee  Mollie,  with  the  sparkling  eye 
And  with  the  brow  so  fair! 

Come,  put  thine  arms  around  my  neck! 

Come,  kiss  thy  father's  brow! 
And  let  me  hear  thy  silvery  voice 

And  drink  its  music  now! 

I  hear  it  oft  at  peep  of  morn, 

As  merrily  it  rings, 
And  linnet  ne'er  on  dewy  lawn 

To  me  so  sweetly  sings. 

Another  kiss  upon  thy  cheek, 

Thou  little  fairie  sprite! 
And  I  will  promise  thee,  my  pet, 

I  '11  not  be  cross  to-night. 

What  ho!  my  little  laddie  boy; 

I  will  not  pass  thee  by, 
But  to  thy  curly  head  will  sing, 

And  to  thy  bright  blue  eye. 

Thou  bearest  thy  father's  name,  my  son, 

And  on  thy  baby  brow 
I  mark  thy  father's  spirit,  too, 

As  I  behold  thee  now. 

The  dews  of  morn  are  on  thy  cheek; 

Thy  race  has  scarce  begun; 
And  many  a  weary  year,  perchance, 

Will  pass  ere  it  has  run. 


THE    POET  AT  HOME.  329 

I  have  no  castles  on  the  land, 

No  ships  upon  the  sea — 
No  store  of  gold  have  I  in  bank, 

Nor  lands  hold  I  in  fee — 

But  yet,  Golconda's  richest  mine, 

Or  Afric's  golden  store, 
Could  never  pay  the  price  I  set 

On  these  wild  urchins  four. 

Fill  me  another  goblet  now! 

Fill  to  the  beaker's  brim! 
Let  each  the  ruby  nectar  taste 

And  kiss  the  crystal  rim! 

Now  do  I  drain  the  brimming  bowl, 

And  thus  the  goblet  break! 
And  thus,  let  all  who  do  ye  wrong, 

My  bitterest  curses  take! 

Good-night,  my  children!  now,  good-night! 

Go  to  your  peaceful  beds; 
And  let  the  rosiest  dreams  of  love 

Hang  round  your  sleeping  heads. 


San  Francisco,  1870. 


TO   CLARA, 

IN   REPLY    TO   THE  GREETING  SHE    GAVE  ME    ON 
FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 


THOUGH  fifty  summers  I  have  seen, 

And  fifty  winters  cold, 
Even  yet,  my  child,  I  do  not  feel 

That  I  am  growing  old. 

But  still  I  know  my  waning  life 

Is  in  the  autumn  leaf, 
And  that  the  remnant  of  my  days 

Can  be,  at  most,  but  brief. 

I'.nt,  whether  it  be  brief  or  long, 

It  will  not  cheerless  be, 
So  long  as  thy  soft  look  of  love 

So  brightly  beams  on  me. 

If  fifty  years  of  weary  toil 

Had  paid  me  nothing  more 
Than  that  soft-beaming  glance  of  thine, 

I  still  would  not  be  poor! 

For  dearer  to  thy  father's  soul 

Is  that  sweet  face  of  thine, 
Than  brightest  gem  that  e'er  was  dug 

From  richest  Indian  mine. 

And  sweeter  to  thy  father's  ear 

Is  thy  soft,  lisping  voice, 
Than  loudest  note  that  ever  made 

Ambition's  soul  rejoice. 

God  shield  thee  long,  my  gentle  one, 
From  bitter  grief  and  care, 


TO    CLARA.  331 

Nor  let  thy  youthful  cheek  be  wet 
With  sorrow's  burning  tear. 

May  long  thy  father's  life  be  spared 

To  shelter  thee  from  harm 
Within  an  humble,  quiet  home, 

All  sunny,  bright,  and  warm; 

And  when  his  weary  head  is  laid 

Beneath  the  willow-tree, 
May  heaven's  protecting  angels  then 

Thy  guardian  spirits  be. 

San  Francisco,  November  16,  1866. 


SONG  TO   LITTLE   MOLLIE. 


OH,  hae  ye  seen  my  bonnie  bairn  ? 

Oh,  hae  ye  seen  wee  Mollie,  O  ? 
An'  heard  the  little  dearie  sing 

Sae  sweetly  to  her  dollie,  O  ? 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherry  ripe; 

Her  teeth  are  white  an'  pearly,  O; 
An'  round  her  little  elfin  brow 

Hing  locks  sae  wild  an'  curly,  O! 

Oh,  she  's  a  little  bonnie  bird! 

A  darlin'  little  dearie,  O! 
That  nestles  in  her  daddie's  heart, 

An'  makes  it  light  and  cheerie,  O! 

Then,  come  an'  see  the  bonnie  bird! 

Then,  come  an'  see  wee  Mollie,  O! 
An'  hear  the  little  dearie  sing 

Sae  sweetly  to  her  dollie,  O! 


San  Francisco,  1865. 


TO    LITTLE   MARY   ASLEEP. 


THE  soothing  hand  of  sleep,  my  child, 

Has  laid  thee  now  at  rest, 
And  spread  its  dreamy  mantle  o'er 

Thy  gently  heaving  breast. 

The  smile  that  plays  upon  thy  lip 

And  lights  thy  baby  brow 
Tells  that  thy  soft  and  rosy  dreams 

Are  of  the  angels  now! 

Sweet  be  thy  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
While  angels  guard  thy  bed, 

And  softly  spread  their  sheltering  wings 
Above  thy  infant  head. 

San  Francisco,  1865. 


TO   MARY, 

ON    HER    FIFTEENTH    BIRTHDAY. 


OH,  Mary  dear,  the  months  again 
Have  brought  thy  natal  morn, 

And  fifteen  summers  now  have  passed 
Since  thou,  my  child,  wast  born! 

The  fleeting  years  have  changes  brought, 

Dear  child,  to  you  and  me; 
To  me  they  've  given  silver  hair, 

And  sunny  locks  to  thee. 

With  thee  the  balmy  breath  of  spring 

Foretells  the  blooming  rose; 
With  me  the  chilling  autumn  clouds 

Predict  the  wintry  snows. 

Long  may  that  sunny  brow  of  thine 

Be  free  from  bitter  care; 
Long  be  it  ere  a  gloomy  cloud 

Shall  cast  a  shadow  there. 

I  know,  my  child,  that  grief's  in  store 

For  all  of  mortal  birth, 
That  tears  must  wet  the  cheeks  of  all 

Who  tread  the  vales  of  earth; 

But  tears  may  be  like  gentle  showers 

That  bid  the  daisies  bloom, 
And  sorrow  does  not  always  cast 

A  chilling  shade  of  gloom. 

Then  be  thy  griefs  like  clouds  that  float 

Across  the  summer  sky; 
And  may  their  shadows  on  thy  soul 

E'er  pass  as  quickly  by; 


TO    MARY,  335 

And  may  the  tears  that  thou  must  shed 

Fall  lightly  as  the  shower 
That  Nature  sheds  in  summer  dews 

Upon  the  sleeping  flower! 

And  when  with  thee  the  dewy  spring 

And  summer  days  are  o'er, 
And  when  upon  thy  sunny  cheek 

The  roses  bloom  no  more, 

May  still  the  sunny  rays  of  Hope 

Beam  brightly  on  thy  head. 
And  o'er  the  closing  eve  of  life 

A  golden  radiance  shed. 


San  Francisco,  1878. 


TO   CLEM. 


'T  is  long  since  I,  with  bat  and  ball, 
And  top  and  marbles  played, 

Or  roamed  a  wild  and  barefoot  boy 
O'er  sunny  field  and  glade. 

For  three-score  years  have  cast  their  snows 

Upon  my  ag£d  head, 
And  summer  leaves  and  summer  flowers 

With  summer  years  have  fled! 

But  still  the  sun  of  life  is  bright, 
Though  going  down  the  sky, 

For  Hope  still  sings  a  cheerful  song 
As  days  and  years  go  by. 

So  live — that,  when  the  hand  of  Time 

Upon  thy  brow  is  laid, 
And  summer  flowers  have  withered  all 

In  autumn's  chilling  shade, 

That  thou  upon  a  well-spent  life 
Mayst  look  with  calm  repose, 

And  with  a  cheerful  patience  wait 
Its  quiet,  peaceful  close, 

Is  the  wish  of  your  father. 

San  Francisco,  May,  1880. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  POOR  YOUNG  GIRL. 


SLEEP,  gentle  maiden,  sweetly  sleep, — 

Thy  dream  of  life  is  o'er; 
The  tears  that  Sorrow  bade  thee  weep 

Shall  dim  thine  eyes  no  more. 

Thou  wert  a  flower  of  fairest  hue, 
Which  morning  suns  unclose, 

Pure  as  the  drops  of  early  dew 
That  glitter  on  the  rose. 

But  now,  alas!  the  bitter  frost 
Of  death  has  nipt  thy  bloom; 

The  flower  has  felt  a  chilling  blast, 
And  withers  in  the  tomb. 

Sleep,  gentle  maiden,  sweetly  sleep, — 

Thy  dream  of  life  is  o'er; 
The  tears  that  Sorrow  bade  thee  weep 

Shall  dim  thine  eyes  no  more. 

Henderson  County,  Illinois,  1847. 


ON     THE     DEATH    OF     A     FRIEND,    WHO 
DIED  AMONG    STRANGERS. 

[JUDGE  ALEXANDER  BAINE.] 


FRIEND  of  my  youth!  thou  art  no  more— 
The  toils  of  life  with  thee  are  o'er; 
Thy  manly  soul  from  earth  has  passed 
And  found  a  peaceful  home  at  last! 

Why  should  I  weep  that  thou  art  gone, 
And  all  thy  earthly  toils  are  done! 
That  thy  clean  hand  and  manly  brow 
Are  mouldering  in  the  charnel  now! 

For  well  I  know,  that  far  away, 
In  beauteous  realms  of  endless  day, 
Thy  soul  has  found  that  sweet  repose 
That  none  but  the  honest  spirit  knows. 

What  though  around  thy  dying  bed 
No  drops  of  kindred  tears  were  shed! 
That  strangers  only  watched  thy  death 
And  caught  thy  last  expiring  breath! 

Full  well  I  know,  that  they  to  thee 
Gave  kindest  words  of  sympathy, 
And  that  thy  sad  and  lonely  bier 
Was  wet  with  many  a  manly  tear. 

And  well  I  know,  that  angel  bands, 
From  brightest  realms  of  heavenly  lands 
Poured  in  thine  ear  the  songs  of  love 
That  thrill  the  starry  courts  above! 

And  now,  methinks,  I  catch  the  song 
Breathed  by  the  bright,  angelic  throng, 


ON    THE    DEATH   OF  A    FRIEND.        339 

As  o'er  their  golden  harps  they  hung 
And  thus  to  heavenly  music  sung: 

"  All  welcome!  to  the  coming  one, 
Whose  earthly  labors  now  are  done; 
All  welcome  to  the  spirit  blest, 
That  soon  with  us  will  be  at  rest! 

"  There  is  for  thee  in  heavenly  lands 
A  home  prepared,  not  made  with  hands, 
Where  thou  shalt  rest  when  life  is  o'er, 
And  feel  its  chilling  storms  no  more. 

"  Then  shalt  thou  meet  thine  early  dead, 
O'er  whom  a  father's  tears  were  shed 
As  their  pale  forms  were  sadly  laid 
Beneath  the  weeping  willow's  shade. 

"  And  there  with  them,  in  robes  of  light, 
(Too  dazzling  far  for  mortal  sight), 
Thou  'It  tread  beneath  celestial  skies 
The  crystal  courts  of  Paradise ! 

"  And  in  that  land  thou  soon  shalt  see 
The  widowed  one  who  weeps  for  thee, 
And  there,  when  life's  bleak  storms  are  o'er, 
Ye '11  dwell  in  love  to  part  no  more. 

"  Then  welcome!  spirit  loved  so  well, 
To  the  bright  land  where  angels  dwell; 
We  wait  to  guide  thee  on  the  way 
To  regions  of  eternal  day!  " 

Yes,  thus  methinks  the  angels  sung, 
As  o'er  their  tuneful  harps  they  hung, 
While  Love's  celestial  light  was  shed 
In  glory  round  the  dying  bed. 

And,  when  by  Azrael's  fatal  stroke 
The  trembling  chords  of  life  were  broke, 
The  happy  spirit  joined  the  throng 
That  to  angelic  choirs  belong. 


340        ON    THE    DEATH   OF  A    FRIEND. 

Then,  from  the  distant  heavenly  plain, 
There  came  a  thrilling,  melting  strain 
Of  music,  such  as  angels  sing, 
When  the  redeemed  from  earth  they  bring. 

The  azure  hills  caught  up  the  song 
The  melting  cadence  bore  along, 
Which,  from  remotest  regions  far, 
Was  answered  by  the  chiming  star! 

Oh,  then  why  weep  that  thou  art  gone, 
And  all  thy  earthly  toils  are  done! 
Since  well  I  know  that  thou  art  blest 
In  a  bright  land  of  heavenly  rest. 

Still  must  I  weep,  my  early  friend, 
As  o'er  thy  silent  grave  I  bend, 
To  think  that  none  of  kindred  blood 
Beside  thy  lonely  death-bed  stood. 

San  Francisco,  1863. 


EPITAPH    ON    SOPHIE. 


TREAD  lightly,  friend,  this  ground  is  holy 
Where  the  sorrowing  willows  wave, 

And  the  little  ones  are  weeping 
O'er  a  mother's  quiet  grave. 


IN    MEMORY    OF   HARRY. 


OH,  why  do  I  weep  for  thee  still ! 

I  know  that  I  am  looking  in  vain — 
For  I  know  that  here  upon  earth 

I  shall  never  behold  thee  again. 

But  the  tears  that  fall  from  my  eyes, 
Though  from  sorrow  and  grief  they  are  born, 

Are  as  soft  and  sweet  to  my  soul 
As  dew  to  the  breast  of  the  morn! 

For,  when  the  scenes  of  this  life  are  all  o'er, 
And  with  its  toils  and  its  strifes  I  have  done, 

In  the  land  where  the  seraphim  dwell 
I  know  that  I  '11  meet  the  lost  one. 


San  Francisco,  1877. 


IN     MEMORY     OF     CLARA. 


SHE  sleeps  beneath  the  daisies  now, 
The  turf  lies  o'er  her  breast, 

And  wild  birds  sing  their  sweetest  notes 
Around  her  place  of  rest. 

Soft  be  thy  sleep,  pale,  stricken  one! 

Thy  peaceful  bed  I  've  made, 
And  gently  laid  thee  down  to  rest 

Beneath  the  cypress  shade. 

I  '11  weep  no  more  for  thee,  my  child, 

I  '11  weep  no  more  for  thee; 
'Twas  but  thine  earthly  form  I  laid 

Beneath  the  cypress-tree. 

I  see  thy  gentle  face  again! 

And  on  thine  angel  brow 
The  smiles  of  love  and  beauty  tell 

That  thou  art  happy  now. 

So  I  will  weep  no  more,  my  child, 

But  will  with  patience  wait 
Till  I  may  kiss  thy  brow  again 

Within  the  shining  gate! 


No,  father,  weep  no  more  for  me; 

No,  weep  no  more  for  me; 
For  at  the  shining,  crystal  gate 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee! 
I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee,  father; 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee — 
For  at  the  shining,  crystal  gate 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee. 


IN    MEMORY   OF    CLARA.  343 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  gentle  kiss, 

Just  as  I  did  of  yore, 
When,  wearied  with  thy  daily  toils, 

I  met  thee  at  the  door! 
I  met  thee  at  the  door,  father; 

I  met  thee  at  the  door— 
When,  wearied  with  thy  daily  toils, 

I  met  thee  at  the  door. 

I  '11  lead  thee  to  a  rosy  bower, 

Where  many  friends  await 
To  greet  thee,  in  the  beauteous  land 

Within  the  shining  gate! 
Within  the  shining  gate,  father; 

Within  the  shining  gate- 
To  greet  thee,  in  the  beauteous  land 

Within  the  shining  gate. 

Then,  father,  weep  no  more  for  me; 

No,  weep  no  more  for  me; 
For  at  the  shining,  crystal  gate 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee! 
I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee,  father; 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee — 
For  at  the  shining,  crystal  gate 

I  '11  surely  wait  for  thee. 


San  Francisco,  1878. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DICK,  A  CANARY-BIRD. 
[KILLED  BY  A  CAT,  TUESDAY,  JUNE  30,  1891.] 


HUSHED  is  thy  tuneful,  warbling  voice, 
Its  silvery  notes  have  fled — 

But  still  I  cannot  think  thy  soul, 
Like  thy  sweet  song,  is  dead. 

For,  oh!  so  sweet  a  voice  as  thine 

Was  never  born  on  earth; 
Methinks  that  where  the  angels  sing, 

That  there  it  had  its  birth! 

And  I  will  weep  for  thee,  poor  bird, 

To  think  thy  harmless  life, 
Which  had  been  spent  in  mirthful  song, 

Should  end  in  pain  and  strife. 

But  yet,  perchance,  thy  warbling  notes 

.S////sing  a  cheering  strain; 
And,  too,  who  knows  but  I  may  yet 

Hear  thy  sweet  voice  again! 

For  'mid  the  bowers  of  Paradise 

'T  is  said  that  birds  do  sing; 
If  so,  I  think  that  there  thy  voice 

In  silvery  notes  will  ring. 


The  daisy  gave  to  Burns  a  name; 
The  skylark's  song  to  Shelley  fame; 
While  I  can  like  a  sailor  swear 

At  everything  I  see 
That  tells  of  an  unfeeling  heart 

Of  fiendish  cruelty— 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CANARY-BIRD.     345 

I  'm  not  ashamed  to  shed  a  tear 

And  feel  a  touch  of  grief, 
E'en  o'er  a  dead  canary-bird 

Or  o'er  a  withered  leaf! 

I  thank  thee,  Nature,  for  this  gift, 

And  would  not  change  it  now 
For  brightest  gem  that  ever  decked 

A  conquering  Caesar's  brow. 

San  Francisco,  June,  1891. 


TO   MY   FAMILIAR  SPIRIT. 


THE  CHARGE. 

OH,  but  you  are  a  wicked  jade! 
Who  all  my  wayward  life  has  made 
A  thing  of  fitful  light  and  shade, 

Like  April  morn; 
And  many  a  trick  you  have  me  played, 

Since  I  was  born. 

You  've  led  me  here— you  've  led  me  there— 
You  've  sometimes  made  me  curse  and  swear, 
And  sometimes  made  me  breathe  a  prayer, 

As  was  your  mood 
To  play  the  devil,  or  in  humor  were 

To  play  the  prude. 

In  wild  and  wicked  company 

You  've  made  me  sip  the  barley  bree, 

You  've  gone  with  me  on  many  a  spree 

And  rattling  rollick, 
Just  for  the  fun  of  seeing  me 

Get  on  a  frolic. 

Hut  now,  they  say,  't  is  time  that  I 
Should  lay  these  wayward  follies  by; 
That  I  should  leave  them  off,  and  try, 

Through  grace,  to  seek 
Some  happy  place  beyond  the  sky, 

Of  which  they  speak — 

Unless  I  do,  they  say,  I  'm  lost; 
That  in  perdition  I  '11  be  tossed, 
And  there  upon  a  burning  coast 

Where  devils  dwell, 
I  '11  join  the  congregated  host 

That  people  hell! 


TO    MY  FAMILIAR    SPIRIT.  347 

They  talk  about  a  narrow  way 
That  leads  from  burning  wrath  away, 
But  few  of  Adam's  sons,  they  say, 

Have  ever  found  it; 
That  those  who  seek  it  night  and  day, 

Oft  go  around  it. 

I  might  take  heed  to  what  they  preach, 
And  seek  to  learn  from  what  they  teach, 
How  I  this  narrow  path  might  reach, 

And  strive  to  hit  it — 
But  you — you  wicked,  sneering  wretch, 

Will  not  permit  it. 

For  if  to  virtue  I  'm  inclined, 

Or  to  be  pious  have  a  mind, 

You  're  sure  as  death  to  come  behind, 

And,  with  a  sneer, 
Breathe  something  of  a  humorous  kind 

Into  my  ear. 

THE    REPLY. 

What  mean  you  by  this  silly  stuff  ? 
You  ought  not  thus  to  kick  and  cuff, 
And  use  an  ancient  friend  so  rough,— 

Come,  list  to  me, 
And  I  will  prove  you  clear  enough 

An  ass  to  be! 

Now,  God  forbid  that  I  should  sneer 
At  aught  that  is  to  Virtue  dear, 
For  all  that 's  holy  I  revere, 

And  oft  have  shed 
Kind  Mercy's  soft  and  melting  tear 

On  Sorrow's  head. 

Nor  sweet  Religion  do  I  scorn; 
She  of  kind  Charity  is  born, 
And,  like  the  gentle  dews  of  morn 
Upon  the  rose, 


TO    MY  FAMILIAR   SPIRIT. 

Brings  to  the  human  heart  forlorn 
A  sweet  repose. 

But  canting  hypocrites  I  hate, 
Who  maudle  o'er  man's  lost  estate, 
But  nothing  do  that  might  abate 

The  grief  of  those 
Who  sigh  beneath  a  heavy  weight 

Of  human  woes. 

Behold  yon  portly,  sleek  divine, 
Whose  rosy  cheeks  with  fatness  shine! 
What  though  he  sigh,  and  cant,  and  whine 

About  the  sinner! 
I  warrant  you  he  knows  what  wine 

Is  best  for  dinner. 

And  mark  you,  too,  that  howling  fool, 
Who  ne'er  has  been  a  day  at  school, 
Yet,  with  assurance  bold  and  cool, 

Presumes  to  give — 
To  men  of  wisdom— a.  moral  rule 

By  which  to  live! 

While  he  devours  a  reeking  roast, 
A  mutton-chop,  and  buttered  toast, 
With  greasy  lips,  he  Ml  vainly  boast 

That  he  can  tell 
What  precious  souls  the  Holy  Ghost 

Will  save  from  hell! 

Hear  how  he  whines  about  salvation, 

And  cants  about  regeneration, 

And  howls  and  snorts  about  damnation 

And  Adam's  fall, 
And  bellows  like  a  bull  of  Bashan 

Within  his  stall! 

Now,  sweet  Religion  does  not  dwell 
With  lordly  priests  who  strut  and  swell, 
Or  ranting  fools  who  howl  of  hell 
And  deep  damnation; 


TO    MY  FAMILIAR    SPIRIT.  349 

Or  canting  knaves  who  roar  and  yell 
About  salvation; 

But  in  the  widow's  humble  shed, 
And  by  Affliction's  dreary  bed, 
And  where  the  little  orphan's  head 

All  lonely  sleeps, 
And  where  Affection  by  the  dead 

Its  vigil  keeps — 

'T  is  there  this  heavenly  maid  is  found, 
And  where  she  treads  is  holy  ground! 
For  through  the  darkest  night  profound 

She  guides  the  way, 
And  lights  the  sullen  gloom  around 

With  heavenly  ray! 

What  does  this  gentle  maiden  teach  ? 
What  should  her  faithful  servants  preach  ? 
Not  that  you  sigh,  and  whine,  and  screech, 

And  horrors  cherish, — 
But  that  a  helping  hand  you  reach 

To  those  who  perish. 

That  unto  others  you  should  do 
As  you  would  have  them  do  to  you; 
That  to  the  sad,  and  erring,  too, 

Be  kindly  given 
Sweet  mercy,  like  the  gentle  dew 

That  falls  from  heaven! 

This  is  the  golden  rule  of  love 
By  which  celestial  spirits  move; 
It  warms  the  nestling  turtle-dove, 

And  brightly  glows 
When  sorrowing  angels  weep  above 

O'er  human  woes. 

Now,  we  have  been  together  long, 
And  often  have  with  wine  and  song 
Beguiled  the  heavy  hours  along 
Life's  weary  way, 


350  TO    MY  FAMILIAR    SPIRIT. 

And  that  you  've  never  done  what 's  wrong, 
I  will  not  say — 

But  this  I  '11  say:  With  cruel  stroke, 
The  bruised  reed  you  ne'er  have  broke, 
Nor  e'er,  by  wanton  word  or  joke, 

(As  I  do  know), 
Have  added  to  the  bitter  yoke 

Of  human  woe. 

And  I  have  seen  you  step  aside 
To  drop  a  tear  o'er  those  who  died, 
Crushed  by  Misfortune's  bitter  tide; 

And  give  a  sigh, 
When  the  proud  Levite  turned  aside 

And  came  not  nigh. 

Then  let  your  mind  all  quiet  be 
While  musing  on  eternity; 
Go  on  and  practice  charity 

And  gentle  love, 
And  this  shall  be  your  guarantee 

For  joys  above! 

San  Francisco,  1869. 


ON   A   LEE -SHORE. 


THERE  's  tempest  on  the  weather  bow, 

And  breakers  on  the  lee; 
No  friendly  beacon  sheds  its  light 

Upon  the  midnight  sea — 

Long  have  I  sailed  the  ocean  wave; 

On  many  a  lee-shore  been; 
But  ne'er  upon  the  stormy  deep 

So  wild  a  night  have  seen! 

This  is  an  angry,  boisterous  sea, 
And  this  a  rock-bound  coast, 

And  many  a  stately  bark  I  know 
Has  on  this  shore  been  lost! 

Unless  we  clear  that  rocky  point 
Which  now  lies  dead  ahead, 

All  hands  will,  ere  the  morning  light, 
The  hungry  sharks  have  fed! 

Aloft,  and  loose  the  topsail  reefs! 

The  weather  braces  mind! 
And,  Pilot,  hard  aport  your  helm, 

And  hold  her  to  the  wind! 

Now,  steady!  so— and  hold  her  firm, 

Nor  let  her  fall  away; 
Heed  not  the  angry,  howling  storm, 

Nor  mind  the  dashing  spray! 

She  's  drifting  still!  give  her  the  jib! 

The  strain  she  '11  have  to  stand, 
If  we  would  pass  that  rocky  point 

And  'scape  the  threatening  land! 

The  struggling  barkie  holds  her  own! 
Oh,  she  's  a  gallant  craft! 


352  ON  A    LEE-SHORE. 

Nor  heeds  the  waves  and  rushing  seas 
That  rake  her  fore  and  aft. 

Her  masts,  of  tough  Norwegian  pine, 
Have  many  a  tempest  stood, 

And  many  a  sea  has  dashed  aside 
Her  ribs  of  oaken  wood. 

Now  hold!  good  cordage,  spar,  and  sail, 

But  for  one  minute  more! 
And  she  will  pass  that  threatening  rock, 

And  danger  will  be  o'er. 

'T  is  on  her  bow!     'T  is  now  abeam! 

Aquarter  't  is  at  last! 
Now  let  the  angry  tempest  howl, 

For  now  the  danger  's  past. 

Up  with  your  helm,  and  give  her  breath! 

Aye,  give  the  barkie  rest; 
And  steer  her  for  a  bay  that  lies 

Nor' west,  a  quarter  west! 

And  thus,  on  Life's  tempestuous  sea 

Wild  billows  often  roar, 
And  oft  a  shattered,  struggling  bark 

Is  on  a  leeward  shore. 

An  easy  thing  it  is  to  sail 

Before  a  gentle  breeze, 
When  skies  are  bright  and  fleecy  clouds 

Float  o'er  the  summer  seas; 

But  when  dark  clouds  to  windward  lie, 
And  dangerous  rocks  alee, 

'T  is  then  the  seaman  must  look  out 
And  on  the  deck  must  be. 

Then  ye,  who  sail  the  sea  of  Life, 
To  windward  keep  an  eye, 

If  ye  would  'scape  the  dangers  that 
Upon  the  lee-shore  lie! 

San  Francisco,  1888. 


MY   SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 


ON  this,  my  seventieth  natal  day, 
I  '11  whistle  bleak  old  age  away! 
As  I  a  merry  part  will  play 

With  youthful  folk, 
And  be  as  young  and  blithe  as  they 

In  fun  and  joke. 

What  though  upon  my  hoary  head 
Old  Time  his  wintry  snows  has  shed! 
What  though  my  youthful  days  have  fled, 

And  left  me  now 
With  crippled  limb  and  halting  tread, 

And  wrinkled  brow! 

I  still  a  merry  song  can  sing, 

And  still  I  love  the  flowers  of  spring; 

To  list  the  tuneful-sounding  string 

Of  merry  strain; 
For  these,  in  pleasant  memories,  bring 

The  past  again. 

I  cannot  tell  how  soon  I  may 

Be  called  from  earthly  scenes  away; 

Nor  yet  the  part  that  I  may  play 

When  life  is  o'er, 
And  I  upon  this  earth  can  stay 

And  sing  no  more. 

But  this  I  know:  where'er  it  be, 
That  all  will  then  be  well  with  me; 
For  sure  I  am  that  I  shall  see 

Bright  faces  there; 
That  still  I  '11  be  as  spirit-free 

As  I  am  here! 


354  MY   SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

So,  when  I  hear  the  trumpet  call 
That  must  at  last  be  heard  by  all, 
It  will  like  sweetest  music  fall 

Upon  my  ear, 
For  I  shall  have  no  cause  at  all, 

I  'm  sure,  to  fear! 

For,  'mid  bright  scenes  of  joy  and  bliss, 
In  some  far  brighter  land  than  this, 
Where  rosy  beams  sweet  flow' rets  kiss, 

I  '11  happy  be — 
Among  the  friends  who  now  I  miss, 

That  £tov  I'll  seel 

With  them  I  '11  roam  o'er  meadows  green, 
And  sail  o'er  lakes  of  silver  sheen, 
And  still  recall  what  I  have  seen 

In  other  lands, 
And  still  be  clasped,  as  I  have  been, 

By  friendly  hands! 

Now,  youngsters  all,  come  let  me  see 
How  bright  and  merry  you  can  be! 
And,  while  I  sip  the  barley  bree, 

I  '11  think  that  I 
Am  still  with  those  so  dear  to  me 

In  days  gone  by. 

Let  hoary  sinners  whine  and  pray, 

As  hypocritic  parts  they  play, 

And  let  them  think  that  thus  they  may 

Stern  Justice  cheat, 
And  find  in  some  great  judgment  day 

A  pleasant  seat; 

While  I  will  list  the  tuneful  string 
That  tells  me  of  the  flowery  spring, 
And  thus  to  me  in  memory  bring 

The  past  again, 
Although  I  've  reached,  while  thus  I  sing, 

Three-score  and  ten! 

San  Francisco,  November  16,  1886. 


OLD    AGE    AND    TIME. 


OLD  AGE. 

TELL  me,  Old  Time!  if  this  you  can: 
In  counting  off  the  years  to  man, 
Why  do  you  some  so  many  give 
And  why  do  some  but  few  years  live  ? 
And  why  not,  too,  consult  the  will 
Of  those  you  are  about  to  kill  ? — 
It  seems  to  me  as  hardly  fair, 
The  way  that  things  adjusted  are; 
Those  who  would  stay  you  take  away, 
Those  who  would  go  you  force  to  stay! 

The  millionaire  who  has  just  died, 
Although  he  struggled  'gainst  the  tide 
To  hold  his  moorings,  yes  or  no — 
Was  forced  at  last  to  let  them  go; 
While  I,  for  years  almost  four-score, 
Have  struggled  off  a  leeward  shore, 
Still  never  yet  have  able  been 
To  find  a  port  to  enter  in! 

Is  it  because  of  some  dark  crime 
By  some  one  wrought  in  ancient  time, 
That  I  am  doomed  on  earth  to  stay 
Until  the  sin  is  purged  away  ? 

Howe'er  it  be,  't  is  time  for  me, 
I  think,  to  leave  this  stormy  sea, 
And  find  a  quiet,  pleasant  spot 
Where  its  wild  storms  may  be  forgot. 

TIME. 

Old  Fossil!  list, — while  I  explain 
Why  you  on  earth  so  long  remain, 
And  if  you  will  give  heed  to  me 
I  think  you  will  contented  be — 


356  OLD    AGE    AND     TIME. 

I  things  adjust  as  best  I  can, 
And  no  exception  make  in  man, 
As  you  will  see,  I  think,  when  you 
Have  clearly  looked  the  matter  through: 

The  millionaire  who  just  has  gone, 
No  special  good  on  earth  has  done; 
His  riches  great,  in  gold  and  lands, 
Were  gained  by  work  of  other  hands. 
And  by  shrewd  cunning,  which  to  me 
Is  but  a  name  for  robbery— 
If  he  had  reached  the  age  you  've  won, 
What  good  on  earth  would  he  have  done  ? 
No  more  than  does  the  spider,  by 
His  silent  watch  to  catch  a  fly! 

You  long  the  path  of  Life  have  trod, 
And  though  you  have  been  poorly  shod, 
Yet  still  you  've  done  the  best  you  could 
And  something,  too,  have  done  of  good— 
You  ne'er  have  shut  your  humble  door 
Against  the  suffering,  helpless  poor; 
For  the  sad,  wretched  outcast,  you 
Have  kindly  done  what  you  could  do, 
And  ne'er  have  given  a  cruel  stroke 
To  hearts  with  bitter  anguish  broke. 

Therefore,  you  see,  Time  has  for  you 
Still  other  labors  yet  to  do, — 
And  while  to  do  you  something  see, 
You  must  with  life  contented  be! 

OLD  AGE. 

All  right,  Old  Time!     I  '11  say  no  more, 
And  here  will  stay  upon  this  shore 
As  long  as  you  may  think  it  well 
That  I  upon  the  earth  should  dwell. 

I  '11  stay  content,  so  long  as  I 
May  dry  a  tear  in  Sorrow's  eye; 
Or,  cause,  by  kindly  look  or  hand, 
A  flower  to  bloom  on  desert  land! 

San  Francisco,  January  25,  1893. 


TURNED  OUT  TO  GRAZE. 

A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  YOUNG  APPOINTEE  TO  A  FEDERAL 

OFFICE  AND  AN  OLD  MAN  WHO  HAD  GROWN  GRAY 

IN  THE  SERVICE  OF  THE  GOVERNMENT. 


YOUNG  OFFICIAL. 

I  MUCH  regret,  my  dear  sir, 

That  I  must  let  you  know 
That  from  this  place  where  long  you  've  been 

You  now  will  have  to  go. 

I  know  your  service  has  been  long, 

And  that,  for  what  you  've  done, 
To  be  well  stalled  by  "  Uncle  Sam  " 

The  right  you  've  almost  won. 

But  'tis  my  duty,  (as  you  know), 

To  save  the  public  feed, 
And  not  to  keep  the  stock  on  hand 

For  which  there  is  no  need. 

I  trust,  that  in  some  other  place 

From  trouble  you  '11  be  free — 
That  there  good  pasture  you  may  find 

And  still  well  sheltered  be. 

OLD  MAN. 

Young  man!  I  've  reached  three-score  and  ten, 
And  now  for  many  years  have  been 
Here  toiling  in  this  musty  den,* 

As  you  've  been  told; 
'Mong  records  writ  by  ancient  pen, 

In  days  of  old. 

While  by  the  great  Republic's  laws, 
The  honored  Pierce  its  Chieftain  was, 

*  Spanish  Archives  of  California. 


358  TURNED    OUT    TO    GRA'/J.. 

And  led  the  Democratic  cause 

As  President — 
Then,  by  Dame  Fortune's  sees  and  saws, 

I  here  was  sent! 

And  here  I  toiled  long  weary  days, 

Ere  you  were  in  your  baby  ways, 

Or  yet  had  learned  your  childish  plays 

Of  ball  and  top; 
Or  on  your  chin  began  to  raise 

The  downy  crop. 

Oft  to  defend  some  honest  claim, 

Oft  to  expose  a  forged  name 

Used  to  promote  some  lawless  game, 

Which  had  been  made; 
And  which,  without  one  blush  of  shame, 

Was  boldly  played. 

And  in  such  work  I  've  ascertained 
Some  facts  by  which  the  State  has  gained, 
And  many  a  settler  has  obtained 

On  public  land 
A  goodly  home,  which  had  been  claimed 

By  grasping  hand. 

If  you  will  list  a  while  to  me, 

I  now  will  tax  my  memory, 

And  give  a  list,  by  which  you  '11  see 

I  've  something  done 
By  which  the  whole  community 

Has  something  won: 

There  's  the  grant  of  "  Ulpinos,"  in  the  Suisun  ValK-y. 

Which  o'er  it  was  spread  to  many  a  square  league, 
While  the  Limantour  claim  and  that  of  Santillan 

Were  cast  o'er  the  city  by  the  hand  of  intrigue. 

The  grant  of  "  Moquelemes,"  in  the  County  of  |<>.H|um 
Eleven  square  leagues  on  the  banks  of  the  rio; 

The  "Santos  Calle","  in  the  County  of  Yolo, 
With  the  falsified  name  of  old  Governor  Pio. 


TURNED    OUT    TO     GRAZE.  359 

The  grant  to  Fuentes,  by  Micheltorena, 

And  that  of  "Calaveras,"  with  a  clear  antedate; 

Another  to  Castro,  with  the  Limantour  seal, 
And  one  to  Diaz  near  the  old  Golden  Gate. 

The  grant  of  "  New  Albion  "  to  William  A.  Richardson, 
Of  many  square  leagues  near  Punta  Arena; 

And  that  to  Garcia,  the  same  in  extent, 
With  the  clearly  forged  name  of  Micheltorena. 

To  these  I  might  add  perhaps  half  a  score, 

Whose  fraudulent  claims  were  powerfully  urged; 

But  when  they  were  scann'd  with  critical  care, 
They  were  found  by  the  courts  to  be  certainly  forged. 

Those  times  and  scenes  have  long  since  fled; 
Most  of  the  actors  now  are  dead; 
But,  here  and  there,  with  hoary  head, 

You  one  will  meet, 
With  stooping  form  and  limping  tread 

Upon  the  street. 

Nor  yet  alone  in  search  of  wrong, 
Have  I  thus  wrought  so  hard  and  long; 
I  too  have  toiled  with  will  as  strong, 

By  day  and  night, 
That  those  should  get  what  might  belong 

To  them  by  right. 

In  barren  wilds  and  savage  lands, 
Where  roam  the  fierce  Apache  bands; 
O'er  arid  plains  and  desert  sands 

In  dangerous  travel — 
My  life  I  've  taken  in  my  hands, 

Some  fraud  to  unravel — 

Been  scorched  by  day  with  tropic  heat; 
Have  climbed  o'er  rocks  with  blistered  feet; 
With  naught  but  salty  jerk  to  eat, — 

And  made  my  bed 
Where  mountain  storms  in  fury  beat 

Upon  my  head! 

~OJ 


360  TURNED    OUT    TO    GRAZE. 

Now  don't  you  think  some  right  I  've  won 
For  all  the  service  I  have  done, 
And  all  the  risks  that  I  have  run, 

In  mine  old  age 
To  journey  somewhat  softly  on 

In  life's  last  stage? 

I  ne'er  could  learn  the  practic  rule, 
Nor  precept  of  politic  school ; 
For  other's  use  I  've  been  a  tool 

To  gather  pelf, 
But  e'er  have  been  too  d — d  a  fool 

To  help  myself! 

I  've  seen  the  bird  with  wounded  wing, 
That  could  not  either  fly  or  sing, 
Lie  in  its  nest  a  helpless  thing — 

It  would  have  died, 
But  for  the  food  its  mates  did  bring 

From  far  and  wide. 

I  've  seen  the  savage  beast  of  prey, 

As  in  his  rocky  den  he  lay 

With  tooth  and  claw  all  worn  away, 

In  snarling  mood— 
But  yet  the  younglings  night  and  day 

Still  brought  him  food. 

The  scarred  warrior,  old  and  worn, 
Who  had  with  shot  and  shell  been  torn, 
And  had  the  brunt  of  battle  borne 

On  fields  of  blood — 
I  've  nourished  seen,  with  wine  and  corn, 

In  shelter  good. 

But  I  have  seen  the  drudging  slave 
Who  all  his  life  to  service  gave 
In  patient  toil,  but  could  not  save 

Out  of  his  wage 
A  few  spare  pence  his  way  to  pave 

To  helpless  age, — 


TURNED    OUT    TO    GRAZE.  361 

When  worn  with  toil,  like  some  old  steed, 
In  his  old  age  in  bitter  need, 
Turned  out  to  find  his  scanty  feed, 

To  live  or  die; 
While  youngling  colts  gave  him  no  heed 

As  they  pranced  by. 

Confess,  I  think,  you  surely  must, 
That  such  a  rule  is  hardly  just — 
For  though  you  find  a  little  rust 

Upon  the  blade, 
It  surely  should  not,  'mid  the  dust, 

Aside  be  laid. 

Go  read  old  Roman  records  o'er, 
And  pages  dim  of  Grecian  lore, 
And  o'er  Egyptian  parchments  pore 

Of  ancient  age, 
And  learn  the  fruits  that  age  has  bore, 

On  every  page! 

The  highest  truths  are  not  attained, 
Nor  brightest  wisdom  e'er  is  gained, 
Nor  purest  knowledge  e'er  obtained 

In  early  youth, 
Ere  yet  the  mind  has  ascertained 

What  is  the  truth. 

The  ripened  fruit  is  never  found 

While  verdant  leaves  are  hanging  round, 

And  milky  weeds  are  on  the  ground; 

Nor  golden  sheaves, 
While  still  is  heard  the  rustling  sound 

Of  summer  leaves. 

But  when  the  summer  days  have  passed, 
And  chilly  blows  the  wintry  blast, 
And  when  old  age  is  coming  fast — 

'T  is /to  you '11  find, 
When  on  the  head  white  snow  is  cast, 

The  ripened  mind! 


362  TURNED    OUT    TO    GRAZE. 

When  Plato  taught  in  ancient  time, 
And  Virgil  wrote  bucolic  rhyme, 
And  Pindar  sang  his  odes  sublime — 

The  youngsters  then, 
To  Fame's  high  niche  were  taught  to  climb 

By  aged  men. 

But  things  have  changed  in  later  days, 
Since  shepherds  piped  their  pastoral  lays; 
The  modern  youth  in  worldly  ways 

Is  wiser  far 
Than  hoary  age  and  frosty  grays, 

And  sages  are! 

YOUNG  OFFICIAL. 

Old  man!  I  've  listened  to  your  tale, 

And  well  I  know  't  is  true; 
But  still  for  all,  I  cannot  tell 

What  I  can  do  for  you. 

The  service  done  so  long  ago 

Is  now  remembered  not — 
For  those  old  times  have  passed  away 

And  now  are  quite  forgot. 

You  surely  know  what  now  is  taught 

In  every  modern  school: 
"  If  you'll  help  me,  then  I  Ml  helpjx<?«," 
Is  the  politic  rule. 

You  Ve  never  been  in  politics, 

And  so  you  cannot  bring 
Such  force  to  bear  as  it  requires 

To  place  you  in  the  ring! 

You  know,  in  fact,  that  you  're  too  old 

For  active  work,  and  that 
You  now  are  like  a  summer  coon, 

With  neither  fur  nor  fat. 

And,  furthermore,  my  hands  are  tied, 
And  nothing  I  can  do; 


TURNED    OUT    TO     GRAZE.  363 

Since  I  have  given  all  I  have, 
I  've  nought  to  give  to  you. 

With  this  I  hope  you  '11  be  content, 

And  so  go  on  your  way— 
For  I  am  very  busy  now, 

And  have  no  more  to  say. 

OLD  MAN. 

Young  man!  if  what  you  say  is  true, 
The  truth  to  tell,  I  pity  you 
More  than  myself, — indeed  I  do; 

That  one  so  bright, 
So  full  of  strength,  and  learning,  too, 

Is  bound  so  tight. 

I  'd  rather  go  and  plough  the  land, 
And  dig  the  soil  and  shovel  sand, 
Or  keep  a  thriving  peanut-stand, 

Than  thus  to  vest 
The  right  to  use  my  good  right  hand 

As  I  thought  best, 

In  hands  of  some  politic  wing, 

Or  tyrant  boss  of  ruling  ring, 

And  thus  be  forced  to  do  something — 

Some  place  to  fill — 
By  one  to  me  that  they  might  bring 

Against  my  will. 

I  'd  have  small  cause,  (I  'm  sure),  to  boast 
Of  what  I  'd  won,  but  at  the  cost 
Of  moral  will  and  freedom  lost, 

Though  I  should  count 
The  treasures  of  the  golden  coast 

In  the  amount. 

A  life  of  toil  I  'd  rather  dree 
And  live  in  bitterest  poverty, 
Or  on  the  bleakest  desert  be, 
And  freedom  save — 


364  TURNED    OUT    TO    GRAZE. 

Than  roll  in  wealth  and  luxury 
A  moral  slave! 

Ere  I  would  "  bend  the  pregnant  knees  " 
Some  Alexander's  whim  to  please, 
I  'd  rather,  like  Diogenes, 

Live  in  a  tub! 
And  roam  abroad  o'er  land  and  seas 

In  search  of  grub. 

Now  this  is  all  that  I  can  say; 
So  you  can  travel  on  your  way, 
And  still  in  rings  politic  play 

Your  little  game, 
With  hope  that  at  some  future  day 

You  '11  win  a  name; 

While  I  will  do  the  best  I  can 
To  finish  up  my  wasting  span, 
And  die  at  last  a  fearless  man, 

Whose  unchained  thought 
Has  never  yet,  since  life  began, 

Been  sold  or  bought. 

But,  ere  I  take  my  limping  way, 
A  word  of  counsel  I  would  say, 
And  which,  although  it  nothing  pay 

Or  profit  you, 
You  yet  may  find,  some  future  day, 

That  it  was  true  : 

"  111  fares  it  with  the  country's  pride," 
When  on  a  filthy,  muddy  tide 
Designing  men  to  office  ride, 

Nor  even  try 

Their  selfish  schemes  and  plans  to  hide 
From  public  eye! 

We  learn  from  old,  historic  page, 
As  writ  by  pen  of  ancient  sage, 
That  through  ambition's  madd'ning  rage 
The  Csesar  fell; 


TURNED    OUT    TO     GRAZE.  365 

That  Nero's  crimes,  in  later  age, 
Made  Rome  a  hell! 

And  how  the  Goth  and  Vandal  came 
With  burning  torch  and  lurid  flame, 
And  left  alone  an  empty  name 

Where  palace  stood, 
And  drowned  the  Eternal  City's  fame 

In  seas  of  blood! 

The  Gallic  serf,  in  later  day, 
Of  lordly  rule  was  long  the  play, 
And  to  licentious  power  a  prey; 

At  last,  he  rose! 
And  then  in  dust  the  tyrant  lay 

Beneath  his  blows. 

The  name  of  Danton  thrilled  the  ear, 
And  many  a  cheek  was  blanched  with  fear 
When  spake  the  bloody  Robespierre; 

And  loud  the  yell, 
When,  'mid  the  hellish  din  of  war, 

The  Bastile  fell! 

When  murky  clouds  hang  in  the  air, 
And  bird  and  beast  give  signs  of  fear, 
And  distant  thunders  to  the  ear 

Low  mutterings  make — 
Then  you  may  know  the  storm  is  near 

And  soon  will  break! 

So  let  Corruption  have  a  care, 
And  of  the  coming  wrath  beware, 
Lest  it  the  fearful  fate  should  share 

Of  France  and  Rome, 
When  Ruin  drove  her  red  ploughshare 

Through  many  a  home. 

San  Francisco,  1886. 


THE   VOICES   OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE  voices  of  childhood  at  the  sunset  of  life  come  back  like  the  whis 
perings  of  an  angel,  while  the  roar  of  the  noon-day  storm  is  forgotten.  I 
can  still  see  my  mother's  gentle  face  and  hear  her  sweet  voice,  just  as  it 
sounded  that  night  when  she  said  :  "  You  ^rt  just  sax  years  auld  the  nigkt, 
laddie." 

Fu'  weel  do  I  remember, 

That  night  my  mither  said, 
"  Your  just  sax  years  auld  the  night, 
My  wee  bit,  bairnie  lad!  " 

I  see  her  smile  sae  gently; 

I  see  her  e'e  sae  bright; 
I  hear  her  voice  soun'  sweetly, 

Just  as  it  did  that  night. 

Fu'  monie  a  year  hae  fleeted; 

Fu'  monie  a  day  since  then; 
For  noo  in  age  I  've  counted 

Just  three-score  year  an'  ten! 

I  've  gaen  on  monie  a  journie; 

In  monie  a  Ian'  hae  been; 
But  ne'er  in  a'  my  wanderin's 

Sae  sweet  a  face  hae  seen 

As  was  my  gentle  mither's, 

When  thus  she  spak'  to  me, 
In  that  braw  night  o'  simmer 

As  I  sat  on  her  knee! 

I  ken  that  I  am  hirplin' 

Doun  to  a  bed  o'  rest, 
Where  I  will  be  weel  happit 

With  the  mools  aboun  my  breast; 

But  tho'  I  'm  auld  an'  criplit, 
An'  blinit  is  my  e'e, 


THE     VOICES    OF    CHILDHOOD.  367 

I  am  for  a'  fu'  cherfu' 
An'  life  is  bright  to  me! 

For  in  some  better  countrie, 

Ayont  a'  grief  an'  pain, 
I  ken  I  '11  meet  that  mither 

An'  hear  her  voice  again. 


San  Francisco,  1888. 


A   GREETING  TO    CARLOS    AND    MIGUEL, 

ON   THE   FIRST   ANNIVERSARY   OF  THEIR    BIRTH. 


Y»i'NG  scions  of  a  famous  race, 

Whose  ancient  blood  in  ye  I  trace, 

I  greet  ye  on  this  smiling  morn 

Which  marks  the  day  that  ye  were  born, 

With  earnest  wish  that  ye  may  be 

An  honor  to  your  ancestry, — 

That  the  Peralta's  ancient  name 

May  ne'er  through  ye  be  brought  to  shame, 

And  that  ye  may  by  actions  good 

Do  honor  to  the  Silvas'  blood, 

As  worthy  children  of  a  race 

Which  has  in  history  made  a  place  : 

In  lands  where  green  the  olive  grows 
And  where  the  winding  Daro  flows; 
Where,  under  Ferdinand  the  Brave, 
The  daring  Spaniard  sought  a  grave 
Before  Granada's  towering  walls 
And  in  Alhambra's  stately  halls! 

Where  lofty  mountains,  capp'd  with  snow, 
O'erlook  the  land  of  Mexico; 
Where  Montezuma's  palace  stood 
And  Aztec  altars  reeked  with  blood; 
Where  Hernan  Cortez  made  his  fight 
Upon  the  ghastly  "Triste"  night, 
When,  with  his  bold,  adventurous  band, 
He  won  for  Spain  an  empire  grand! 

In  regions  wild,  of  savage  lands, 
And  deserts  lone,  of  arid  sands, 
Where  scorching  heat  in  summer  reigns 
On  Arizona's  burning  plains! 


GREETING  TO  CARLOS  AND  MIGUEL.    369 

Aye;  of  a  race  which  honors  won 
'Neath  wintry  sky  and  tropic  sun, 
Ere  to  this  coast  Vizcayno  came 
(*r  California  had  a  name! 

But  of  the  race  whose  names  ye  bear, 
The  lives  of  none  recorded  are 
Which  so  eventful  were  on  earth 
As  that  of  her*  who  gave  ye  birth; 

And  rarely,  if  Jen  e'er,  perchance, 
Was  known  such  glamour  of  romance 
As  that  which  smiling  Fortune  shed 
Upon  your  early  infant  bed. 

And  now  on  this,  your  natal  day, 
I  sing  to  ye  this  simple  lay, 
As  tribute  to  the  famous  race 
Whose  noble  blood  in  ye  I  trace  : 


Ye  buds  of  Love!  ye  opening  flowers 

That  herald  forth  Life's  spring, 
Ye  come  all  smiling,  fresh,  and  bright, 

The  fondest  hopes  to  bring! 

For  ye  are  flowers  of  rarest  growth, 

With  human  speech  endowed, 
And  breathe  the  breath  of  dearest  love 

That  is  to  man  allowed. 

The  fairest  flower  that  e'er  was  plucked 

Within  the  Vales  of  Earth, 
Is  not  so  sweet,  nor  half  so  pure 

As  is  a  human  birth! 

For  'tis  distilled  from  deepest  love 

Known  to  a  woman's  breast, 
Shaped  by  that  Thought  which  guides  the  orb 

And  rounds  the  robin's  nest. 

*  Sofia  Loreto  Maso  y  Silva  de  Peralta. 


370    GREETING  TO  CARLOS  AND  MIGUEL. 

It  is  a  link  between  two  hearts; 

A  gage  of  heavenly  love, 
Which  calms  the  throbbing  human  breast, 

And  soothes  the  turtle-dove. 

Oh,  may  such  rosy  beams  of  love 

As  now  upon  ye  shine, 
Still  fall  upon  your  manhood's  years 

And  on  their  late  decline! 

San  Francisco,  February  17,  1894. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


"  How  long,  O  Nature,  must  I  stay 
Here  in  this  falling  house  of  clay  ? 
The  walls  are  crumbling,  and  it  seems 
Can  not  much  longer  hold  the  beams; 
The  embers  on  the  hearth  are  low, 
No  longer  give  a  cheerful  glow, 
And  old-time  friends  that  I  have  known, 
Have  by  the  Reaper  down  been  mown; 
Then  how  much  longer  must  I  stay 
Here  in  this  crumbling  house  of  clay  ? " 

"  Patience!     Patience!  now,  my  son; 
Come,  wait  until  your  task  is  done; 
As  summer  fruit  when  ripe,  't  is  found, 
Is  brought  by  Nature  to  the  ground, 
So,  when  you  've  done  your  work,  you  '11  be 
From  your  decaying  house  set  free!  " 

San  Francisco,  March  27,  1892. 


TO    ILA, 

ON     HER     EIGHTEENTH     BIRTHDAY  ;      IT    BEING    THE    SAME 
DAY    OF    THE    MONTH    AS    MY    OWN. 

[MISS   ILA  LANE.] 


AGAIN,  the  circling  months  have  brought 

Thy  natal  day  and  mine; 
But  there  's  a  long,  long  gap  between 

My  day  of  birth  and  thine ! 

The  shadow  on  the  dial  shows 

That  seventy-two  I  've  seen, 
While  yet  for  thee,  my  sunny  child, 

It  only  marks  eighteen. 

With  me,  the  summer  days  have  passed, 

And  autumn,  too,  has  fled; 
For  Time  his  wintry  snow  has  cast 

Upon  my  hoary  head. 

With  thee,  the  dew  is  on  the  flower, 
'T  is  springtime  with  thee  now! 

And  rosy  light  from  golden  clouds 
Beams  on  thy  sunny  brow. 

Sweet  are  the  songs  that  wake  the  morn, 

And  bright  the  noonday  sun, 
And  soothing  are  the  sounds  that  tell 

That  the  long  day  is  done; 

And  thus  the  dewy  spring  of  life, 
Should,  like  the  morn,  be  bright, 

And  when  the  eye  is  dimm'd  with  age 
Still  should  the  heart  be  light! 


372  TO    ILA. 

Long  may  that  sunny  brow  of  thine 
By  care  unfurrowed  be, 

And  may  the  griefs — that  all  must  bear- 
E'er  lightly  fall  on  thee. 

And  when,  like  mine,  thy  head  is  gray, 
And  withered  is  thy  brow, 

May  still  thy  life  be  calm  and  bright 
And  happy  as  't  is  now. 

San  Francisco,  November  16,  1888. 


TO   ILA, 

ON     HER     MARRIAGE. 
[ILA   LANE-ALLEN.] 


THE  skies,  dear  Ila,  that  bend  o'er  thee  now, 

Are  bright  as  the  smiles  that  light  thy  young  brow; 

The  sunbeams  of  love,  around  thee  that  play, 
Are  soft  as  the  dawn  of  a  bright  morn  in  May! 

Thy  bark  it  is  launched — may  the  breezes  that  bear 
It  onward  through  life  be  gentle  and  fair 

As  a  mother's  soft  breath,  or  whispers  that  tell 
Where  Love  has  its  home,  and  cherubs  may  dwell! 

May  Love  ever  make  sweet  music  for  thee, 
And  Hope  thy  cheering  companion  e'er  be; 

May  the  years  of  thy  life  all  calmly  go  by 

Like  a  long  summer's  day,  with  a  clear,  azure  sky; 

May  the  noon  be  as  bright  as  the  morning  has  been, 
And,  in  the  dim  exit  of  Life's  closing  scene, 

May  the  sweet  voice  of  Love  still  fall  on  thine  ear, 
And  the  bright  smile  of  Hope  thy  spirit  still  cheer. 

San  Francisco,  February  24,  1894, 


THE   OLD    HOUSE. 


IN  that  low-roofed  house,  so  weird  and  so  gray, 
That  stands  on  a  street  so  out  of  the  way, 
I  've  long  found  shelter,  in  peace  and  in  strife, 
From  the  tempests  that  howl  on  the  ocean  of  life. 

As  a  time-worn  book,  or  long-written  page, 
That  old  house,  like  me,  is  hoary  with  age; 
Yet 't  is  a  record  of  times  when  life  was  still  young, 
And  the  songs  of  the  heart  still  sweetly  were  sung! 

One  eve  as  I  sat  at  the  close  of  the  day 

On  its  vine-covered  porch,  going  fast  to  decay, 

My  thoughts  wandered  back  thro'  the  dim,  misty  years 

To  the  graves  I  had  dug  and  watered  with  tears. 

As  the  shadows  of  eve  were  deep'ning  to-night, 
And  the  house  looked  weird  in  the  moonbeams  bright, 
I  called  up  in  fancy  the  ones  I  had  lost, 
Who  o'er  its  worn  steps  so  often  had  crossed. 


First,  softly  fell  upon  my  ear 

The  pattering  sound  of  childish  feet; 
Anon,  the  merry  ringing  notes 

Of  childish  voices,  soft  and  sweet. 

And  then  two  childish  forms  appeared, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  and  faces  bright 

As  sunbeams  on  the  blooming  rose, 
Or  lily  kissed  by  morning  light! 

Two  little  children — bright  were  they — 
Who  used  to  sit  upon  my  knee; 

They  called  me  father,  and  I  wept 
When  they  at  last  were  lost  to  me. 


374  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

I  sought  to  detain  them,  but  they  would  not  stay; 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  dreams  passed  away! 


And  then  came  one  with  hoary  head, 
Who  oft  with  me  had  broken  bread, 
And  in  the  house  had  found  a  bed 

When  day  was  o'er, 
And  many  a  page  with  me  had  read 

Of  quaint  old  lore. 

He  was  a  man  somewhat  of  note, 

Full  of  amusing  anecdote, 

And  many  a  passage  he  could  quote 

From  written  page, 
Of  what  the  famous  authors  wrote 

Of  ancient  age. 

I  knew  him  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Ere  Time  his  head  had  silvered  o'er, 
And  wayward  Fortune  smiled  no  more, 

But  passed  him  by — 
And  left  him  on  a  barren  shore 

Alone  to  die. 

But  now  he  came  as  in  old  time, 
When  he  was  in  his  manhood's  prime, 
All  full  of  jokes,  and  comic  rhyme, 

And  merry  glee, 
And  often,  too,  with  high,  sublime 

Philosophy! 

He  looked  around  right  cheerily, 
And  cast  a  pleasant  glance  at  me; 
Smiled  at  the  simple  things  which  he 

Had  seen  before, 
And  very  glad  he  seemed  to  be 

With  me  once  more. 


THE    OLD    HOUSE.  375 

But  ere  I  could  greet  my  old-fashioned  friend; 

And  beg  him  a  moment  to  stay, 
Like  a  swift-passing  shadow,  or  a  dim,  misty  dream, 

He  had  fled  and  melted  away! 


And  then  came  one  of  lofty  form; 

He  had  a  pensive  face; 
And  on  his  thoughtful  brow  he  bore 

The  lines  that  sorrows  trace — 

He  looked  at  me  kindly,  as  slowly  he  passed, 
And  his  looks  seemed  to  say  he  was  happy  at  last. 


Anon,  I  heard  a  lilting  strain 

That  told  of  heathery  hills, 
Of  shady  glens,  and  sunny  glades, 

And  murmuring  mountain  rills. 

And  then  came  one  in  tartans  clad; 

A  minstrel's  harp  he  bore, 
And  in  his  jaunty  bonnet  blue 

A  Scottish  thistle  wore. 

I  knew  him  as  a  Scottish  bard, 

On  whom  Dame  Fortune  had  been  hard; 

A  man  whose  life  was  illy  starred 

In  his  old  age, 
And,  too,  with  whom  I  'd  often  shared 

My  daily  wage. 

The  wayward  Muse  we  often  sought, 
And  from  her  notes  we  sometimes  caught 
Of  jingling  verse  and  rhyming  thought, 

Which,  (truth  to  tell), 
While  they  by  none  were  ever  bought, 

They  paid  us  well. 

He  melted  away  in  a  wild,  lilting  strain, 

Yet  I  'm  sure  that  some  day  I  '11  see  him  again! 


376  THE    OLD    HOUSE. 

And  then  came  one  of  wayward  race, 
With  gentle  eye  and  childish  face; 
A  gifted  son  of  earth  was  he, 
But  giv'n  to  sip  the  barley  bree. 

I  often  had  him  counsel  given, 

And  often  had  him  fed, 
And  in  the  old  house  oft  he  'd  found 

A  shelter  and  a  bed. 

When  I  would  chide  him  he  would  weep, 

And  promise  make  to  me 
That  never  while  on  earth  he  lived 

He  'd  taste  the  barley  bree. 

He  gave  me  a  smile  of  sweetest  delight 
As  he  faded  away  in  the  shadows  of  night. 


Who  knows  ?    Perhaps,  from  off  the  tree 

That  in  the  garden  grows, 
The  hand  I  clasped  in  bygone  days 

May  pluck  a  blooming  rose! 

Who  knows?    Perhaps,  beside  my  chair 
That  by  the  old  hearth  stands, 

Old  friends  may  come  and  soothe  my  brow 
With  loving,  viewless  hands! 

Who  knows?    Perhaps,  in  this  old  house 
They  still  keep  their  abode — 

May  weep  with  me,  and  laugh  with  me, 
And  help  to  bear  my  load! 

San  Francisco,  January  15,  1893. 


THEY   HAVE   ALL   GONE   BEFORE. 


"  SAY,  whither  away, 

So  late  in  the  day, 
Do  you  journey,  old  man  of  sorrow  ? 

Your  garments  are  torn, 

Your  sandals  are  worn, 
Come,  rest  with  me  till  to-morrow!" 

"No;  I  must  still  journey  on, 
For  my  friends  have  all  gone, — 

Yes,  all  have  gone  on  before  me; 
No  halt  can  I  make, 
Nor  rest  can  I  take, 

Where  none  I  can  find  who  know  me.5> 

"  Now,  tell  me,  who  are  they 
Who  have  all  gone  away, 

And  left  you  so  old  and  weary, 
To  journey  alone 
Where  you  are  unknown, 

On  this  highway,  so  cold  and  dreary  ?  " 

"  One  soothed  me  to  rest 

Upon  her  soft  breast, 
As  she  taught  me  to  lisp  '  Mother  ' ! 

And  often  at  play, 

In  life's  early  day, 
I  romped  with  sister  and  brother! 

"  And  one  there  was  fair 
As  fresh  lilies  are, 

Whose  sweet  voice  used  to  greet  me, 
When  weary  and  worn, 
With  the  toils  I  had  borne, 

With  bright  smiles  she  would  meet  me! 


378      THEY  HAVE    ALL    GONE    BEFORE. 

"  That  sweet  face  I  now  see 
As  it  then  looked  on  me, 

But,  oh!  it  is  bitterly  weeping 
O'er  a  little  curly  head, 
Which  on  a  white  bed, 

Like  a  cherub  in  marble,  is  sleeping. 

"  'T  is  many  a  long  day 
Since  they  all  went  away, 

And  left  me  alone  in  my  sorrow, 
But  well  do  I  know 
That  this  journey,  though  slow, 

Will  end  in  some  brighter  to-morrow! 

"  So,  I  must  still  travel  on 
Till  my  journey  is  done, 

When  I  Ml  meet  my  lost  ones  again; 
But  no  halt  can  I  make, 
Nor  rest  can  I  take, 

While  here  on  the  earth  I  remain." 

San  Francisco,  1888. 


THE   MINSTREL'S    LAST   SONG. 

(ON    A    SICK     BED     IN     PROSPECT     OF     DEATH.) 


I  FEEL  the  chilling  damps  of  death! 

Pale,  shadowy  forms  around  me  stand, 
And  gentle  voices,  low  and  sweet, 

Are  whispering  of  some  beauteous  land- 
Some  land  of  sweet  repose. 

Quick!  bring  the  harp  of  softest  note 
That  e'er  the  minstrel's  hand  has  strung, 

And  I  will  sing  a  dying  strain — 
The  sweetest  yet  that  e'er  I  've  sung— 
Ere  this  wild  life  shall  close. 

Farewell,  ye  flowery  fields  of  earth ! 

Ye  sunny  skies  and  winding  streams! 
Farewell  to  life!  its  loves  and  woes, 

And  all  its  wild,  fantastic  dreams — 
The  minstrel  sings  no  more. 

No;  ne'er  on  earth,  his  sounding  harp 
Will  chain  the  list'ning  ear  again, 

Or  bid  the  tear  of  sorrow  flow, 
Responsive  to  its  melting  strain — 
Its  tuneful  notes  are  o'er. 

Come  near  me  now,  ye  cherished  ones! 

The  sands  of  life  are  ebbing  fast; 
A  misty  veil  hangs  o'er  my  sight; 

The  minstrel's  wayward  life  is  past, 
His  toils  on  earth  are  done. 

No  more  on  Fancy's  airy  wing 

He  '11  roam  the  beauteous  realms  of  light; 
Nor,  led  by  Passion's  baleful  fires, 

Will  wander  'mid  the  glooms  of  night — 
His  fitful  race  is  run. 


3&>  THE    MINSTRELS    LAST   SONG. 

Nay,  weep  not  yet;  I  would  not  now 
Call  back  the  ebbing  tide  of  life, 

To  count  again  earth's  weary  years, 
Or  tread  again  its  paths  of  strife- 
Life's  bitter  tears  to  shed. 

But,  when  this  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 
And  pale  in  death  this  brow  shall  sleep, 

When  all  but  Love  shall  be  forgot — 
Then,  let  such  tears  as  Love  may  weep, 
Fall  o'er  the  minstrel's  head. 

Perchance,  in  brighter  lands  than  earth, 
The  flowers  of  beauty  still  may  bloom; 

Perchance,  the  dying  son  of  song, 
Beyond  the  shadowy  pass  of  gloom, 
May  tune  his  lyre  again! 

Perchance,  'mid  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom, 
He  may  recall  his  land  of  birth; 

Perchance,  in  tuneful  voice  again, 
May  sing  the  songs  he  sang  on  earth- 
But  in  far  sweeter  strain! 

Perchance,  upon  the  wandering  breeze 
That  softly  fans  the  evening's  breast, 

He  Ml  seek  again  his  earthly  home, 
To  whisper  of  a  land  of  rest, 

When  life's  wild  storms  are  o'er. 

Then  farewell,  all  ye  earthly  scenes,— 
Ye  sunny  skies!  ye  winding  streams! 

Farewell  to  life!  its  loves  and  woes; 
Passed  are  the  minstrel's  airy  dreams — 
He  sings  on  earth  no  more. 

San  Francisco,  1869. 


I'LL   STRIKE   THE   EPIC  LYRE  NO  MORE. 


No  MORE  of  bloody  war  I  '11  sing, 
Of  ghastly  fields  of  carnage  red 

With  human  blood,  by  human  hands 
In  brutal  strife  and  battle  shed. 

Then,  take  the  epic  lyre  away! 

F  11  never  touch  its  chords  again; 
And  bring  to  me  the  Doric  reed, 

And  I  will  pipe  a  pastoral  strain — 

Of  running  brooks  and  flowery  vales, 
Of  meadows  green  and  peaceful  herds, 

Of  summer  fields  and  waving  corn, 
Of  vernal  groves  and  warbling  birds! 

I  '11  catch  the  skylark's  silvery  note 
As  up  he  springs  to  greet  the  morn; 

1  '11  list  the  song  the  linnet  sings 
So  sweetly  in  the  flowery  thorn. 

I  '11  seek  the  banks  where  daisies  bloom; 

I  '11  pluck  the  rosebud  wet  with  dew; 
The  lily  pale  and  snowdrop  white 

I  '11  twine  with  flowers  of  azure  hue. 

In  early  morn  I  '11  shepherds  seek, 
And  roam  with  them  the  sunny  glade; 

At  sultry  noon  with  them  repose 
Beneath  the  leafy  poplar's  shade. 

And,  when  the  summer  day  is  o'er, 
At  dewy  eve  I  '11  sink  to  rest 

Beneath  the  shepherd's  humble  roof, 
Without  a  care  upon  my  breast. 

Then,  tell  me  not  of  bloody  war, 
Of  ghastly  fields  of  carnage  red 

With  human  blood,  by  human  hands 
In  brutal  strife  and  battle  shed! 

San  Francisco,  1878. 


DEATH     SCENE. 


GIVE  me  a  drop  of  barley  bree, 
And  sing  to  me  a  cheerful  song, 

Ere  I  shall  close  my  eyes  in  death 
And  sleep  among  the  dusty  throng! 

You  need  not  mind  that  ghastly  One 
Who  shakes  his  shadowy  dart  at  me; 

He  can  not  strike  the  fatal  blow 
Till  I  have  drunk  the  barley  bree! 

Another  cup!  another  still! 

While  yet  I  'm  on  the  mortal  brink — 
Another  cup!  and  't  is  the  last 

That  ever  I  on  earth  shall  drink. 

Now  do  your  worst,  my  ghastly  friend! 

Strike  when  you  will  the  fatal  blow — 
For  I  've  no  more  to  do  on  earth 

And  am  contented  now  to  go. 

But,  hold!  what  magic  change  is  this 
That  falls  upon  my  fading  sight? 

Where  stood  that  ghastly  goblin  grim 
I  now  behold  a  damsel  bright! 

Upon  her  cheek  the  rosebud  blooms! 

With  living  breath  her  bosom  swells! 
And  on  her  laughing  brow  she  wears 

A  wreath  of  blooming  immortelles! 

One  hand  she  reaches  out  to  me, 
The  other  points  far,  far  away— 

To  where  what  seems  a  fairy-land, 
Where  lilies  bloom  and  fountains  play. 

Hush— let  me  hear  the  silvery  voice 
That  falls  so  sweetly  on  mine  ear— 


DEATH  SCENE.  —  THE  TWO  HARPS.      383 

With  smiling  face  she  bids  me  come, 
And  nothing  I  shall  have  to  fear. 

Adieu,  my  friends!  I  can  not  stay — 

So  I  will  bid  you  all  good-bye! 
And,  as  I  'm  going,  I  will  say 

'T  is  not— a— fear— ful— thing— to—  die  ! 

San  Francisco,  1869. 


THE     TWO     HARPS. 


Two  harps  I  have  of  magic  string, 
To  each  of  which  I  sometimes  sing; 
One  by  a  gentle  spirit  strung 
While  yet  the  dewy  morn  was  young; 
The  other  strung  with  brazen  wire, 
By  demons  wrought  in  hellish  fire! 
I  do  not  like  its  dev'lish  tone, 
And,  (when  I  can),  let  it  alone. 


San  Francisco,  1879. 


OLD    MAN    AND    DEATH. 


OLD    MAN. 

WELL  met,  pale  Death!  you'  ve  come  at  last- 

And  welcome  are  to  me; 
For,  from  these  old  and  worn-out  bones 

I  'm  anxious  to  get  free. 

So,  cut  the  thread!  and  quickly,  too, — 

And  with  you  I  will  go, 
And  to  what />/a^,  I  will  not  ask, 

Nor  do  I  care  to  know. 

But  tell  me  first,  if  this  you  will, 
Why  long  you  've  passed  me  by, 

And  hurried  off  the  rich  and  great 
Who  were  so  loath  to  die  ? 

DEATH. 

I  but  an  agent  am,  old  man, 

In  Nature's  world  of  Cause, 
To  carry  out  what  is  decreed 

By  her  well-ordered  laws. 

The  bloated,  proud,  and  grasping  ones, 

Full  fed  by  greed  and  wrong, 
Would  in  the  end  o'errun  the  earth 

Could  they  their  lives  prolong; 

Just  as  the  weeds  of  fattest  growth, 

Were  they  allowed  to  stand, 
Would  choke  the  useful  plants  of  earth 

And  poison  all  the  land. 

The  farmer  tills  his  fruitful  soil, 

And  reaps  the  ripened  wheat, 
But  he  roots  out  the  noxious  weeds 

And  kills  the  worthless  cheat. 


OLD    MAN   AND    DEATH.  385 

Now,  I  the  gardener  am  of  earth, 

And  keep  a  watchful  eye; 
I  cut  the  rank  and  filthy  weed, 

But  pass  the  corn-plant  by; 

And  let  it  stand,  until  its  leaves 

Are  withered  all  and  sere, 
When,  with  a  kind  and  gentle  hand, 

I  reap  the  ripened  ear. 

In  your  long  life  of  four-score  years, 

No  pompous  name  you  've  won, 
But  still  within  your  humble  sphere 

Some  good  you  've  surely  done. 

For  gentle  word,  or  simplest  act 

Done  at  unselfish  cost, 
Will  in  some  future  have  effect 

Which  never  can  be  lost. 

But,  now,  your  mortal  task  is  o'er, 

And  you  've  no  more  to  do, 
And  1,  the  Reaper,  here  have  come 

At  last  to  harvest  you. 

So,  come  along!  nor  fear  to  walk 

With  man's  last  friend  on  earth, 
Who  is  as  kind  as  is  the  one 

That  watches  o'er  his  birth. 

I  keep  a  quiet  wayside  lodge 

Hard  by  the  Stygian  deep, 
Where,  ere  you  cross  the  silent  stream, 

You  '11  take  a  pleasant  sleep; 

From  which  you  '11  wake  to  higher  life 

Beyond  the  soundless  shore, 
Where  your  old  worn  and  weary  bones 

Will  never  pain  you  more. 

San  Francisco,  September  3,  1893. 


LET  ME  NOT  SLEEP  IN  THE  VALLEY  LOW. 


OH,  let  me  not  sleep 

In  the  valley  low, 
Where  the  earth  is  damp 

And  the  rank  weeds  grow; 
Where  the  cold  mist  hangs 

O'er  the  reedy  brake, 
And  the  green  frog  croaks 

In  the  dismal  lake; 
No,  let  me  not  sleep 

In  the  valley  low. 

Nor  yet  would  I  sleep 

In  the  churchyard  old, 
'Neath  green,  mossy  stones 

And  dark,  crumbling  mould; 
Where  the  yew-tree  grows 

And  the  willow  waves 
O'er  the  bones  that  rot 

In  forgotten  graves; 
No,  I  would  not  sleep 

In  the  churchyard  old. 

But  make  me  a  bed 

On  the  mountain  high, 
Where  the  lightnings  flash 

When  the  storm  sweeps  by; 
Where  the  eagle  soars 

From  its  rocky  nest, 
And  the  white  snow  sleeps 

On  the  mountain's  breast; 
Yes,  make  me  a  bed 

On  the  mountain  high! 

Yes,  lay  me  to  rest 

Where  the  thunder  speaks 


LET  ME  NOT  SLEEP  IN  THE  VALLEY  LOW.    387 

From  the  cloud  as  it  sweeps 

O'er  the  mountain  peaks, 
And  the  sun  looks  bright 

From  an  azure  sky, 
When  the  storm  has  passed 

And  the  cloud  gone  by; 
Yes,  lay  me  to  rest 

Where  the  thunder  speaks! 

Then  my  spirit  will  sport 

On  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
And  ride  on  the  sunbeam 

When  the  tempest  has  passed; 
Up!  through  the  bright  azure 

'T  will  wing  its  swift  flight, 
And  bathe  in  the  ether 

At  the  flood-gates  of  light; 
And  bathe  in  the  ether 

At  the  flood-gates  of  light! 

But  I  could  not  rest 

In  the  valley  low, 
Where  the  earth  is  damp 

And  the  rank  weeds  grow, 
Where  the  cold  mist  hangs 

O'er  the  reedy  brake, 
And  the  green  frog  croaks 

In  the  dismal  lake; 
No,  I  could  not  rest 

In  the  valley  low. 

In  the  Sierra  Madre  of  Mexico,  1881. 


BONES   AND   THE   GRAVE-DIGGER.* 


"  GOOD  FRKND,  FOR  JESU'S  SAKE  FORBEARS 
TO  DICC  THE  DVST  ENCLOASED  HERB  ; 
Bl.KSK  BE  VK.  MAN  YT.  SPARKS  THKS  STONES, 
AND  CVRST  BE  HE  YT.  MOVES  MY  BONES." 

— SHAKESPEARE'S  EPITAPH. 

BONES. 

HOLD!  Vandal,  hold  your  savage  spade, 
Nor  dig  where  these  old  bones  are  laid, 
Where  loving  ones  have  made  their  bed 
And  tears  of  sorrow  o'er  them  shed, 
And  bade  the  drooping  willows  weep 
In  silence  o'er  their  quiet  sleep! 

In  yon  old  church  a  record  's  found 
Which  tells  that  this  is  holy  ground, 
That  by  a  Christian  priest 't  was  blessed 
And  made  a  place  of  holy  rest, 
Where  Christian  bones  in  peace  may  stay 
Until  the  resurrection  day; 
Then,  Vandal,  hold  your  savage  spade, 
Nor  dig  where  these  old  bones  are  laid! 

DIGGER. 

All  that  you  say,  perhaps,  is  true, 
And  so  I  '11  not  dispute  with  you, 
As  I  'm  but  working  by  the  day 
To  move  these  rotting  bones  away. 

This  piece  of  ground  has  just  been  sold, 
(I  do  not  know  for  how  much  gold), 
And  I  am  ordered  now  to  take 
Away  this  rubbish,  and  thus  make 

*  Written  on  the  occasion  of  removing  bodies  from  the  consecrated 
ground  of  the  Mission  Dolores  Churchyard,  to  make  room  for  a  street. 


J5ONES   AND    THE    GRAVE-DIGGER.      389 

A  highway  fit  for  thriving  trade, 

By  which  much  money  may  be  made! 

BONES. 

If  this  be  true,  then  well  I  know 
That  from  this  spot  these  bones  must  go, 
For  ever  since  Priest  Aaron  made 
His  golden  calf,  has  Mammon  played 
The  ruling  lord  of  all  the  earth, 
Wherever  man  has  had  his  birth — 
From  him  who  gnaws  a  cast-off  bone 
To  him  who  sits  upon  a  throne; 
From  him  who  fruit  to  market  brings 
To  him  who  deals  in  sacred  things. 

Of  thee  a  favor  I  will  ask, 
And,  as  't  will  be  an  easy  task, 
I  hope  that  this  you  '11  do  for  me, 
Since  I  as  much  would  do  for  thee: 

When  from  their  rest  these  bones  are  ta'en, 
Do  not  inter  them  o'er  again, 
But  make  of  them  a  funeral  pyre 
And  give  them  to  consuming  fire — 
And,  when  they  are  to  ashes  burned 
And  to  the  dust  they  have  returned, 
Then  scatter  them  upon  the  wind, 
That  on  its  wings  they  then  may  find 
A  place  of  rest,  where  ne'er  again 
They  '11  be  disturbed  by  greed  of  gain! 
I  care  not  where  the  dust  may  sleep — 
On  mountain  top  or  rolling  deep, 
'Mid  summer  flowers  or  Arctic  snow, 
Where  tempests  howl  or  breezes  blow — 
So  they  a  quiet  spot  may  reach 
Where  hypocrite  may  never  preach ; 
Where  virtue  is  not  bought  and  sold, 
Nor  sacred  things  exchanged  for  gold. 

San  Francisco,  1889. 


THE    ARGONAUTS    OF    CALIFORNIA. 


FROM  every  land  and  clime  they  came, 

The  men  of  Forty-nine; 
O'er  mountain,  plain,  and  stormy  sea, 

To  seek  the  golden  mine! 

From  land  of  rock  and  mountain  pine; 

From  where  the  palm-tree  grows; 
From  burning  sands  and  tropic  plains, 

And  from  the  Arctic  snows! 

From  sunny  vales  and  vine-clad  hills, 
And  lands  of  meadows  green; 

From  where  the  low-roofed  cottage  stands 
By  lakes  of  silver  sheen. 

The  farmer  left  his  growing  fields; 

The  merchant  left  his  store; 
The  student  left  his  classic  shade, 

All  for  the  golden  shore! 

The  vintner  left  his  clustering  vines 

Amid  the  Alpine  hills; 
The  shepherd  left  his  grazing  herds 

Beside  the  mountain  rills; 

The  father  left  his  little  ones; 

The  son  his  parents  old; 
The  bridegroom  left  his  blooming  bride, 

All  for  the  land  of  gold! 

And  many  a  picture  bright  they  drew 

Of  happy  days  in  store, 
When  to  their  homes  they  would  return 

All  rich  in  golden  ore. 

Where  are  they  now — those  gallant  men 
Who  then  so  proudly  stood 


THE    ARGONAUTS    OF    CALIFORNIA.     391 

In  mountain  wilds,  on  arid  plains, 
And  by  the  rolling  flood  ? 

Go  read  the  records  carved  in  stone 

Where  sleep  the  silent  dead, 
And  they  will  tell  that  many  there 

Have  found  a  quiet  bed. 

And  some  by  mountain  streams  repose, 

No  willows  o'er  them  weep, 
Nor  storied  marbles  mark  the  spots 

Where  they  in  silence  sleep. 

The  mountain  winds  a  requiem  sing, 

And  coldly  fall  the  snows 
Upon  the  lone,  deserted  graves 

Where  now  their  bones  repose. 

And  some  remain;  of  whom  a  few 

By  thrift  have  prospered  well, 
As  palace  grand,  and  flocks  and  herds, 

And  fruitful  farms  will  tell! 

But  more,  alas!  in  weary  age, 

With  poverty  alone, 
Are  left  to  mourn  their  early  hopes 

Which  have  forever  flown. 

Yon  aged  man,  now  so  forlorn, 

All  worn  with  want  and  care, 
Is  one  who  came  in  early  times 

With  hopes  all  bright  and  fair! 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets  alone, 

The  piteous  sight  you  see, 
And,  with  a  trembling  voice,  he  asks 

The  stranger's  charity. 

Repulse  him  not;  for  many  a  time 

The  suffering  poor  he  's  fed, 
And  to  the  houseless  stranger  given 

A  shelter  and  a  bed. 


392     THE    ARGONAUTS    OF    CALIFORNIA. 

Oh,  ye  who  came  in  later  days, 
When  cities  great  had  grown, 

Remember  that  you  're  reaping  now 
Where  those  brave  men  have  sown! 

They  broke  the  stubborn  glebe,  and  cleared 

The  thorny  brier  away, 
And  ploughed  the  virgin  soil  where  waves 

The  golden  grain  to-day! 

Then  give  to  them  the  justice  due, 

Although  they  sadly  stand 
Without  a  roof  to  shelter  them, 

And  not  a  rood  of  land. 

Aye,  do  them  reverence — for  to  them 

Ye  owe  a  lasting  debt, 
Which  generous  hearts  and  manly  souls 

Will  surely  not  forget! 

Reproach  them  not,  although  they  failed 

In  prosperous  times  to  ride 
Into  a  sunny  harbor  snug 

Upon  a  flowing  tide. 

A  few  more  circling  years  will  pass, 

And  you  will  see  no  more 
A  man  who  came  in  Forty-nine 

Unto  the  golden  shore. 

San  Francisco,  1869. 


A   LOS    MEJICANOS    DE   CALIFORNIA. 


i  Do  estan,  Mejicanos,  los  hombres  honrosos, 
De  nombres  celebrados,  y  memorias  gloriosas, 
Que  en  tiempos  antiguos  a  la  costa  venieron, 
Y  con  brazos  fuertes  el  desierto  conquistaron  ? 

i  Los  Moncadas'  y  Serras',  Vallejos'  y  Carrillos', 
Los  Guerras'  y  Argiiellos',  Peraltas'  y  Estudillos', 
Los  Neves'  y  Pages',  Galindos'  y  Resales', 
Los  Castros'  y  Avilas',  Romeros'  y  Morales'  ? 

Duermen  en  polvo  en  los  desiertos  lugares, 
En  donde  se  hallaban  sus  dichosos  hogares; 
Y  la  noche  solita,  en  gotas  de  rocio 
Llora  sobre  sus  sueiios  en  el  suelo  tan  frio. 

<;  Do  estan  los  hijos,  a  ellos  nacidos, 
Los  hombres  robustos  y  doncellas  queridas  ? 
Las  aves  de  la  noche  ora  labran  sus  nidos 
En  las  tristes  ruinas  do  fueron  nacidos. 

,;  Y  do  estan  las  fiestas  que  ellos  gozaban, 
Las  voces  de  amores  que  ellos  cantaban  ? 
Como  suenos  de  la  noche,  para  siempre  pasadas, 
Y  en  triste  silencio  para  siempre  calladas. 

Si,  para  siempre  pasados  son  los  tiempos  dichosos, 
Con  sus  dias  alegres,  y  costumbres  hermosos; 
De  su  beldad  y  gozos,  y  dulces  amores, 
No  se  quedan  ahora  sino  tristes  memorias. 

Aunque  yo  soy  de  una  raza  estrana, 
Y  no  corre  mis  venas  el  sangre  de  Espana, 
No  puedo  dejar  de  honrar  d  los  hombres 
Que  dejaron  al  pais  sus  obras  y  nombres. 

Honrad!  entonces,  a  los  hombres  honrosos, 
De  nombres  celebrados,  y  memorias  gloriosas, 
Que  en  tiempos  antiguos  a  la  costa  venieron, 
Y  con  brazos  fuertes  el  desierto  conquistaron. 

San  Francisco,  Aiio  1886. 


THE   IMMORTAL   SPIRIT. 


The  Immortal  Spirit,  a  spark  stricken  from  the  Rock  of  Eternal  Exist 
ence,  will  never  perish  ! 

THE  flame  of  the  spirit  can  never  be  quenched, 
Though  its  light  for  a  time  be  obscured; 

Since  its  source  is  the  fountain  of  Being  Divine, 
Its  life  is  forever  assured! 

In  the  sensual  garb  in  which  it  is  clothed 
On  its  journey  through  the  Valleys  of  Earth, 

'Mid  the  wants  and  the  passions  the  body  begets, 
It  forgets  the  bright  land  of  its  birth. 

But  the  shadows  that  darken  the  chambers  of  night 
Are  scattered  by  the  light  of  the  morn, 

And  the  darkness  that  clouds  the  spirit  on  earth 
Disappears  when  anew  it  is  born. 

Then  judge  not  as  lost  the  low  and  depraved; 

The  children  of  Darkness  and  Sin; 
Had  their  lots  been  brighter  when  cast  upon  earth, 

Fair  beings  of  beauty  they  'd  been. 

One  drop  of  the  ocean  is  a  part  of  the  whole, 

Alike  in  its  being  and  kind; 
And  a  spark  that  is  stricken  from  the  Infinite  Source, 

Is  a  part  of  the  Infinite  Mind! 

As  the  roses  that  bloom  uncultured  and  wild 
Improve,  when  in  gardens  they  're  placed, — 

And  the  fruits  of  the  forest,  so  bitter  and  sour, 
When  cultured,  are  sweet  to  the  taste, — 

So  the  being  that 's  born  in  darkness  and  sin 

And  knows  but  of  sensual  desire, 
By  kindness  and  care,  ;';/  time  may  be  led 

To  the  bright  and  the  good  to  aspire! 


THE    IMMORTAL    SPIRIT.  395 

As  the  light  that  is  smouldering  by  life-giving  breath 

May  be  waked  to  brightness  again, — 
So  the  soul  may  be  led  to  seek  for  the  Light 

That  long  in  the  darkness  has  lain. 

Then,  ever  speak  kindly  to  poor,  erring  ones, 

The  children  of  Discord  and  Wrong, 
And  teach  them  to  look  to  the  bright,  shining  world 

To  which  their  pure  spirits  belong. 

The  laurels  that  are  won  on  the  red  field  of  Mars 

Are  stained  with  a  dark,  crimson  dye, 
And  the  songs  that  are  sung  in  the  warrior's  praise 

Are  burthened  with  the  orphan's  sigh; 

And  the  gold  that  is  gathered  by  the  miser's  care 
And  coined  from  the  blood  of  the  poor, 

Will  cling  to  his  heart  in  a  red,  burning  chain, 
When  he  can  use  his  treasure  no  more. 

But  he  who  by  love  and  charity  leads 

A  soul  from  darkness  to  light, 
Will  be  crowned  with  flowers,  which  freshly  will  bloom, 

When  the  sun  no  longer  is  bright! 

Tucson,  Arizona,  1884. 


THE    HERMIT   AND   THE   PRINCE: 

A    LESSON   OF   LIFE. 

AGRA,  a  recluse  of  the  Indian  mountains. 

ALKAK,  a  young  Indian  Prince,  in  search  of  knowledge. 


AGRA. 

WHAT  seeks  the  prince  at  Agra's  mountain  cave  ? 
Art  weary  of  the  nautch-girl's  song  and  dance; 
Does  Pleasure's  voice  no  longer  charm  the  ear, 
And  forms  of  beauty  please  no  more  the  eye, 
That  now  Prince  Alkar  seeks  the  rocky  cave 
Where  Agra  dwells  'mid  Nature's  solitude  ? 

ALKAR. 

I  've  come  to  Agra's  cave  in  search  of  truth! 
Of  knowledge  of  my  mysterious  being, 
And  what  may  be  the  end  of  my  existence. 

I  've  read  the  sacred  books;  they  tell  me  nought— 
I  've  looked  upon  the  glorious  sun  by  day — 
The  moon,  and  ever-beaming  stars  by  night! 
They  move  in  silence  through  the  soundless  deep, 
But  tell  me  nought  of  what  I  seek  to  know. 

I  've  seen  the  lightning  smite  the  gnarled  oak, 

And  slay  the  infant  on  its  mother's  breast; 

I  've  seen  the  earthquake  rend  the  rugged  mountain, 

And  make  the  fruitful  vale  a  barren  waste; 

I  've  seen  the  sea  engulf  the  stately  bark, 

When  lashed  to  fury  by  the  angry  storm; 

I  've  seen  gaunt  Famine  strew  the  earth  with  bones, 

And  spotted  Pestilence  mark  its  loathsome  track 

With  festering  human  flesh! 


THE    HERMIT    AND     THE    PRINCE.      397 

These  tell  of  nought 
But  senseless  force  and  blind  destructive  power. 

I  've  seen  red-handed  Murder  walk  the  earth; 
The  strong  oppress  the  weak,  and  cruel  War, 
With  fire  and  sword  destroy  the  Beautiful, 
And  leave  fair  Nature's  face  a  blackened  waste! 
All  these  tell  but  of  cruel  thirst  for  blood— 
They  fill  my  soul  with  horror  and  disgust, 
And  make  me  doubt  the  wisdom  of  creation. 

AGRA. 

Desire  to  know,  is  the  first  step  to  wisdom ; 
This  thou  now  hast  taken!     List  to  Agra's  words, 
And  with  patience  hear  all  that  he  can  teach 
Of  the  mysterious  laws  of  life  and  being. 
Look  to  the  East  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 

ALKAR. 

A  snow-clad  mountain  peak  that  rises  high 
Into  the  clear  ether;  around  its  base 
The  darkness  gathers,  while  on  its  summit 
The  golden  sunbeams  linger  still! 

AGRA. 

Behold  in  this  an  emblem  of  the  path 
That  leads  to  knowledge! — 

Mind  is  progressive; 

The  higher  it  ascends  the  scale  of  being, 
The  clearer  its  far-reaching  glance  becomes; 
Low  in  the  valley  all  is  mist  and  darkness, 
While  on  the  lofty  mountain  peak  the  sunbeams 
Pour  a  flood  of  living  light  and  glory. 

Nor  Mind  alone  this  beauteous  law  obeys — 

All  forms  material,  in  Nature's  boundless  realms, 

As  in  the  scale  of  being  they  ascend, 

Become  more  beautiful;  the  golden  cloud 

That  floats  upon  the  far-off  azure  deep, 

Sprang  from  the  stagnant  pool;  the  butterfly 

That  sports  on  painted  wing  from  flower  to  flower, 


398       THE    HERMIT   AND     THE    PRIXCE. 

Was  yesterday  a  foul,  unsightly  worm! 
All  forms  material  are  but  transient  things — 
The  snow  flake  melts  beneath  the  morning  sun; 
The  floweret  fades  before  the  autumn's  breath, 
And  rock-ribbed  mountains  crumble  into  dust 
From  which  the  fruitful  summer  harvest  springs; 
And  this,  creation  is;  'tis  birth!  'tis  life! 
And  't  is  death — which  nought  but  transition  is. 
Thus,  Beauty  from  Corruption  springs,  and  Life 
Is  born  of  Darkness  and  Decay. 

ALKAR. 

From  the  insensate  dust  of  former  life 

I  know  that  Life  and  Beauty-  spring  anew — 

The  seed  decays,  and  from  it  springs  the  plant; 

The  beast  is  born,  and  to  the  dust  returns; 

Both  plant  and  beast  produce  their  kind,  and  die, 

And  ne'er  again  upon  the  earth  are  seen; 

And  man!  with  all  his  powers  of  mind,  like  them, 

Is  born;  like  them,   he  lives ;  like  them,  he  dies, 

And,  like  them,  to  insensate  dust  returns. 

What  better  then  is  his  unhappy  lot 

Than  that  of  vilest  worm  that  crawls  the  earth, 

Or  summer  insect,  in  the  morning  born, 

To  perish  ere  the  evening  sun  has  set  ? 

AGRA. 

All  forms  their  circles  of  existence  have — 
From  the  ungainly  root  ascends  the  stem; 
The  graceful  branches  spring  from  this,  and  these 
Are  clothed  with  emerald  leaves  and  fragrant  flowers 
Which  contain  the  germs  of  new  creations. 

No  higher  can  the  plant  ascend  in  being; 
It  dies,  and  to  its  mother  earth  returns. 

The  faithful  dog 

Looks  to  his  master  as  his  only  god, 
And  is  supremely  happy  in  his  smile; 
Nor  longs  for  any  higher  state  of  bein^l 


THE    HERMIT   AND     THE    PRINCE.      399 

The  insect  sports  its  little  life  away 

Amid  the  flowers  of  summer;  nor  needs,  nor  dreams 

Of  any  brighter  future! 

These  fill  the  measure  of  their  sensuous  lives, 

And  die,  and  to  insensate  dust  return ; 

And  man!  he,  like  the  speechless  brute,  is  born; 

Like  it,  his  mortal  form  decays  and  dies, 

And  to  the  all- forgetting  dust  returns; 

But  though  his  mortal  form  returns  to  dust, 

And  never  more  upon  the  earth  is  seen, 

The  spark  immortal  still  all  brightly  glows; 

As  quenchless  as  Eternal  Being  is! 

That  this  is  so,  great  Nature's  voice  proclaims 
Through  all  the  infinite  realms  of  being — 
From  blade  of  grass  to  tallest  mountain  pine; 
From  smallest  mote  that  in  the  sunbeam  floats 
To  mightiest  orb  that  lights  the  midnight  sky; 
From  tiniest  insect  to  the  loftiest  mind 
That  dwells  in  highest  realms  of  being. 

Why  ever  seeks  the  restless  mind  of  man 

For  that  which  lies  beyond  its  highest  reach  ? 

Why  does  the  gray-haired  sage  in  anguish  toil 

For  knowledge,  and  die  from  want  with  thirst  unquenched? 

Why  does  Ambition  seek  to  rule  the  world  ? 

Why  does  the  miser  toil  for  needless  gold? 

And  why  does  bitter  Anguish  seek  relief 

In  the  forgetful  cup  and  madd'ning  bowl  ? 

These  are  but  struggles  of  the  Immortal  Mind 
For  that  which  ne'er  can  be  obtained  on  earth; 
But  fruitless  efforts  to  break  the  prison  bars 
In  which  't  is  chained  an  exile  from  its  home. 
This  transient  life  on  earth  is  but  probation, 
In  which,  by  patient  toil,  the  soul 's  prepared 
For  entrance  to  a  higher  state  of  being; 
And  suffering  needful  is,  to  purge  the  soul 
From  sensual  dross,  as  fire  refines  the  gold. 


400       THE    HERMIT    AND     THE    PRINCE. 

ALKAR. 

The  words  of  Agra  fall  on  Alkar's  ear 
Like  sweetest  music,  and  refresh  his  soul 
As  do  soft  summer  showers  the  thirsty  earth; 
But  tell  me,  hoary  sage,  if  this  thou  canst: 
What  occupies  the  soul,  when  it  has  reached 
The  shadowy  realms  of  that  mysterious  land  ? 
Do  dreamy  languor  and  eternal  rest 
Fall  on  the  soul  in  that  bright  land  of  beauty  ? 

AGRA. 

There  is,  my  son,  "  No  royal  road  to  knowledge  " — 
From  patient  search  and  toil,  bright  wisdom  springs; 
The  mind  of  man  must  ever  active  be, 
And  before  it  ever  lies  an  unknown  future: 
Ambition  seeks  for  that  which  it  has  not; 
The  student  toils  for  what  he  does  not  know; 
And  Hope  dwells  ever  in  an  unknown  land! 

Go  sound  the  depths  of  Nature's  darkest  caves, 

And  soar  aloft  to  realms  of  purest  light! 

Count  all  the  orbs  that  gem  the  brow  of  night! 

Explain  the  laws  that  guide  them,  and  that  give 

Each  material  atom  its  appointed  place 

In  the  mighty  circle  of  creation — 

Grasp,  if  thou  canst,  the  Infinite  Universe ! 

This  none  but  the  Infinite  Mind  can  do; 
For  the  All- Embracing  must  all  things  know  ! 
Thus,  to  the  finite  mind,  there  ever  is, 
And  must  forever  be,  an  unknown  future, 
Until  it  reach  Nirvana,  the  abode 
Where  Brahma  dwells. 

ALKAR. 

If  this  be  so,  why  come  not  those  who  dwell 
In  that  bright  land  beyond  the  pass  of  shadows 
To  visit  those  who  linger  still  in  Time, 
And  cheer  them  in  this  vale  of  tears,  with  hope 
Of  brighter  things  than  e'er  are  seen  on  earth  ? 


THE    HERMIT    AND     THE    PRINCE.      401 

AGRA. 

The  gilded  butterfly  no  converse  holds 
Directly  with  the  sleeping  chrysalis, 
Though  from  the  worm  the  butterfly  is  born; 
Yet  still,  between  the  worm  and  butterfly, 
While  one  in  an  unconscious  torpor  sleeps, 
And  one  sports  gayly  on  the  summer  breeze, 
There  is  a  sympathetic  bond  of  union. 

And  thus  the  beings  who  have  passed  from  earth, 
And  dwell  amid  the  light  of  brighter  worlds, 
May  hold  communion  (though  unseen)  with  those 
Who  linger  still  upon  the  shores  of  Time — 
The  soul,  when  it  ascends  above  the  sphere 
Of  sensual  life,  communion  holds  with  those 
Who  dwell  amid  the  higher  realms  of  being, 
From  whence  comes  Inspiration's  light  to  earth — 

Bright  Inspiration  lights  its  burning  torch 
At  the  living  flame  that  forever  beams 
From  the  pinnacle  of  Wisdom's  temple, 
While  Analysis  ever  toils  with  pain 
Within  the  shadow  of  its  lofty  dome ! 

ALKAR. 

Do  those  who  pass  the  shadowy  bounds  of  Time 
Remember  still  the  things  they  did  on  earth, 
And  meet  with  those  they  knew  and  loved  in  life  ? 

AGRA. 

Immortal  memory  never  dies,  but  lives 
Forever  in  the  highest  realms  of  being, 
And  like  seeks  like  through  all  the  universe; 
And  those  who  loved  on  earth  may  meet  again 
Beyond  the  gloomy  vale  where  Yama  dwells! 

ALKAR. 

A  beauteous  flower  once  bloomed  by  Alkar's  side — 
'T  was  early  blighted  by  untimely  frost, 
Since  when  no  light  has  beamed  upon  his  soul. 


jv      THE    HERMIT   ASD     THE    PRISCE. 


ks  lofty  peaks' 

»          ~    -  ;-      -      -_    -  -      --_••-      '       -r    '      ~~  -    -r  ".  '    :'•_':. 

Of  those  who  dwefl  in  higher  realms  than  earth; 

That  wake  the  echoes  of  that  land  of  beauty! 
Yet,  these  br^ht  beings  have  material  forms 

to  mortal  sight, 
earthly  ear 
of  sweetest  music. 

The  one  that  Alkar  loved  and  sadly  lost 
In  Varna's  rhilBnt  vale,  now  sings  to  him 
In  sweetest  notes  a  gentle  song  of  love; 
Her  voice  is  soft,  and  sweeter  far  than  sound 


THE    HERMIT    A^'D     THE    PRINCE.      403 

Of  sleeping  harp  by  sammer  breezes  waked ! 

List  the  song  of  love  she  sings  to  Alkan 

ForAlkarlwait 

By  the  bright,  silver  stream, 
Where  the  white  Ifly  blooms 

In  me  sun's  golden  beam; 
Where  the  white  lily  blooms 

In  the  sun's  golden  beam,— 

For  Alkar  I  wait 
By  the  bright,  silver  stream! 


For  Alkar  I 
Where  the  birds 
Where  autumn  ne'er  comes, 

Nor  winter  is  seen; 
Where  the  white  lily  blooms 
In  the  sun's  golden  beam, — 

For  Alkar  I  wait 
By  the  bright,  silver  stream ! 

ALKAR. 

The  words  are  sweeter  far  to  Alkar  s  ear 
Than  sound  of  harp  or  voice  of  softest  lute; 
But  how  does  Agra's  eye  this  vision  see^ 
And  Agra's  ear  this  gentle  music  hear. — 
\Vhile  Alkar's  longing  eye  beholds  it  not. 
And  Alkar's  listening  ear  no  music  hears  ? 

AGRA. 

For  three-score  years  and  ten  has  Agra  dwelt 

Alone  amid  these  mountain  solitudes — 

His  drink  has  been  the  crystal  stream;  his  food 

The  simple  herb,  with  milk  of  mountain  goat; 

No  flesh  of  slaughtered  beast  has  fouled  his  lips, 

Nor  drop  of  deadly  drink  has  fired  his  blood ; 

Communion  has  he  held  with  Nature's  laws — 

As  seen  in  azure  sky  and  golden  cloud, 

In  blooming  flower  and  fading  autumn  leaf, 

In  sun,  and  moon,  and  shining  star,  and  all 


404       THE    HERMIT    AND     THE    PRINCE. 

The  hosts  that  wander  through  the  soundless  deep! 
As  heard  when  loud  the  tempest  pipes  its  notes 
And  softly  sings  the  summer  evening  breeze! 
When  the  loud  thunder  shakes  the  trembling  earth; 
When  the  merry  skylark  greets  the  dewy  nn.rn. 
And  when  the  cricket  chirps  its  evening  song! 

The  mind,  thus  raised  above  the  sensual  plane, 
May  sometimes  converse  hold  with  those  who  d  well 
In  that  bright  land  where  Yama  has  no  power; 
And  thus  can  Agra  now  communion  hold 
With  those  who  dwell  in  that  bright  land  of  beauty. 

ALKAR. 

How  may  Alkar  best  himself  prepare  to  meet 
His  lost  Alkana  in  that  sweet  land  of  love, 
And  to  hold  converse  with  the  beings  bright 
Who  dwell  beneath  its  ever-beaming  skies, 
And  gather  blooming  flowers  and  golden  fruits 
In  fields  where  falls  no  bitter,  biting  frost, 
And  where  no  blighting  storms  are  felt  ? 

AGRA. 

When  Alkar  leaves  this  life  at  Yama's  call, 
His  worn-out  body  to  the  earth  returns, 
To  form,  perchance,  a  flower,  or  tree,  or  beast; 
While  that  which  we  call  sou/,  or  mind,  or  spirit, 
Goes  to  the  place  for  which  'tis  best  prepared, 
In  strict  obedience  to  that  moral  law 
Which  forces  like  its  kindred  like  to  seek, 
Through  all  the  infinite  realms  of  Nature. 

Then,  if  Alkar  hopes,  when  Yama  calls  him  hence, 

To  meet  Alkana  in  that  land  of  beauty, 

To  hear  the  songs  that  thrill  its  emerald  plains 

And  wake  the  echoes  of  its  purple  hills, 

Let  him  with  earnest  patience  seek  the  Good! 

Avoid  as  death  all  envy,  pride,  and  hate; 

Drive  malice  from  his  soul,  nor  cherish  aught 

That  may  defile  the  sweet  face  of  Beauty; 


THE    HERMIT   AND     THE    PRINCE,      405 

Speak  kindly  to  the  wretched,  broken-hearted, 
Nor  crush  with  cruel  words  poor  erring  ones; 
Plant  in  the  garden  of  his  soul  sweet  flowers 
Of  beauty,  and  on  them  breathe  the  breath  of  love! 
Let  gentle  Charity  his  companion  be, 
And  ever  heed  sweet  Pity's  pleading  voice — 
So,  when  the  chilling  storms  of  life  are  o'er, 
And  Yama  calls  him  to  the  beauteous  land,    . 
Then  shall  he  meet  his  loved  and  lost  Alkana, 
With  other  happy  kindred  ones,  who  have, 
Like  him,  themselves  a  dwelling  bright  prepared 
Amid  the  blooming  bowers  of  Paradise! 

ALKAR. 

Thanks,  reverend  sage!  thy  lesson  Alkar  hears; 
No  more  he  '11  shed  the  bitter,  hopeless  tear, 
O'er  withered  flowers  and  perished  earthly  hopes; 
But,  will  with  patience  bear  the  ills  of  life, 
With  cheering  hope  that,  when  the  night  is  o'er, 
A  brighter  day  for  him  will  surely  dawn 
Beyond  the  chilling  vale  where  Yama  dwells. 

AGRA. 

And  now,  my  son,  'tis  time  to  seek  repose; 
To-morrow,  we  '11  again  pursue  the  path 
That  leads  to  knowledge! 

Santa  Catalina  Mountains,  Arizona,  1882. 


DRIFTING. 


1  DREAMED  I  had  heaved  my  anchor  apeak; 

That  I  was  drifting  away  on  an  ebbing  tide; 
That  I  was  drifting,  drifting,  drifting  away — 

That  I  was  drifting  away  on  an  ocean  wide! 

No  pilot  I  needed;  the  current  it  bore  me 
Through  the  mists  that  hung  o'er  the  stormless  sea, 

Whose  dark,  rolling  waves  no  echoes  return 
As  they  break  on  the  shores  of  Eternity. 

From  the  dim,  misty  shore,  fast  fading  from  view, 
A  low,  murmuring  sound  fell  faint  on  my  ear; 

I  heard  the  harsh  echoes  of  discord  and  strife, 
The  sweet  song  of  Hope,  and  the  wail  of  Despair! 

The  wild  echoes  ceased — the  sounds  died  away— 
The  shores  I  had  left  were  lost  to  my  sight; 

But  yet,  o'er  the  deep  I  still  drifted  on 
'Mid  the  silence  of  death  and  the  blackness  of  night. 

In  soft  slumber  I  sank  to  a  dreamless  repose; 

No  life  coursed  my  veins,  nor  thrilled  in  my  breast; 
The  past  was  forgot— for  the  Angel  of  Death 

In  a  Lethean  sleep  had  laid  me  to  rest. 

From  my  slumber  I  woke!  and  saw  in  the  East 
The  soft,  rosy  tints  of  a  bright,  vernal  morn; 

And  I  knew  by  the  joy  that  thrilled  in  my  soul, 
That  from  my  past  life  a  new  being  was  born! 

San  Francisco,  1885. 


IMAGINARY     CONVERSATIONS     BETWEEN 

A    STUDENT     OF    NATURE    AND 

SAGES  OF  ANTIQUITY. 


FROM  childhood,  Life,  however  expressed  through  the  myriad  forms  in 
Nature,  has,  in  all  places  and  under  all  circumstances,  been  the  absorbing 
thought  of  my  mind. 

While  still  a  youth,  (as  far  back  as  sixty  years),  I  found  it  impossible  to 
harmonize  the  Biblical  account  of  Creation — of  the  fall  and  redemption  of 
man— a.?  interpreted  by  theological  creeds,  with  the  universal  revealings  of 
Nature.  I  was  therefore  compelled,  in  justice  to  an  honest  conviction,  to 
discard  the  same  as  an  absolute  rule  of  faith  and  conduct;  without,  how 
ever,  losing  any  respect  therefor  as  an  ancient  record  of  the  past,  teach 
ing  sublime  truths,  and  containing  grand  poetical  conceptions  clothed  in 
the  language  of  Oriental  allegory;  and,  too,  without  in  any  degree  losing 
my  reverence,  or  respect,  for  the  character  of  the  Reformer  of  Nazareth, 
or  for  the  simple  truths  He  taught  his  humble  followers  while  wandering 
o'er  the  plains  of  Judea. 

The  thoughts  expressed  in  the  following  Conversations  are  the  honest 
offspring  of  patient  observations  of  the  laws  of  Nature,  together  with  the 
intuitive  convictions  of  my  own  mind;  and,  as  such,  I  publish  them,  unso- 
licitous  as  to  what  effect  they  may  have  upon  myself.  I  have  almost  reached 
the  limit  of  earthly  existence,— am  too  old  to  desire  notoriety,— and  there 
fore  can  have  no  other  object  in  giving  them  to  mankind  than  for  the  pro 
motion  of  what  I  believe  to  be  the  truth,  and  for  the  progressive  advance 
ment  of  humanity.  As  I  have  endeavored  to  live  a  blameless  life,  I  shall 
leave  the  world  without  fear  and  without  regret. 

These  Conversations  were  written  under  peculiar  circumstances,  the 
history  of  which  will  be  published  at  some  future  time. 

RUFUS  C.  HOPKINS. 

San  Francisco,  April  22.  1894. 


408  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 


CONVERSATION  I. 

STUDENT    AND    PYTHAGORAS. 
STUDENT. 

COME,  ancient  sage  of  Samos,  and  wisdom  teach 
To  one  who  with  earnest  toil  for  knowledge  seeks! 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Who  calls  Pythagoras  from  celestial  realms, 
Where,  by  the  light  of  brighter  spheres  than  earth, 
He  still  advances  in  the  path  he  trod 
In  search  of  truth  beneath  the  Grecian  skies  ? 

STUDENT. 

A  patient  student  in  the  search  of  truth, 
Who  seeks  to  learn  the  history  of  this  earth— 
From  whence  it  sprang,  with  all  that  it  inhabit. 

PYTHAGORAS. 

This  rolling  orb,  which  as  an  atom  floats 

In  the  wide  ocean  of  infinite  space, 

Was  born  of  Nature's  self-engendering  womb, 

In  strict  obedience  to  Eternal  Law, 

Which  is  the  soul  of  all  material  forms — 

From  dewdrop  trembling  on  the  rose's  breast, 

To  ocean  heaving  to  the  silver  moon! 

From  far  beyond  where  cold  Uranus  rolls 
And  distant  Neptune's  still  more  wintry  sphere. 
Once  reached  the  limits  of  yon  solar  orb, 
Whose  disk,  now  lessened  to  a  burning  spot. 
So  brightly  glows  upon  the  azure  vault. 
The  fiery  womb  of  that  revolving  orb 
From  time  to  time  gave  birth  to  all  the  worlds 
That  mark  the  days  and  years  of  solar  time; 
From  ancient  Neptune,  now  with  aeons  hoary, 
To  youngest  planet  on  the  solar  skirts. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  409 

And  thus  was  born  the  earth  that  you  inhabit; 

But  not,  like  Venus,  from  the  foamy  sea 

In  radiant  beauty  clothed, — a  flaming  orb, 

From  out  the  burning  solar  womb  it  sprang, 

In  lurid  lightnings  clothed,  with  thunders  charged, 

And  glowing  with  a  fierce,  intrinsic  heat. 

yEons  on  Nature's  dial  were  recorded, 

As  measured  by  the  years  of  solar  time, 

Ere  abating  heat  condensed  the  fiery  vapor 

Into  liquid  form,  and  thus  foundation  laid 

For  life  organic,  which  should  in  time  appear — 

But  still  internal  fires  in  fury  raged; 

Wild  tempests  swept  the  restless,  boiling  seas; 

Volcanic  lightnings  lit  the  brow  of  night; 

Reverberate  thunders  shook  the  trembling  orb, 

While  sulphurous  clouds  shut  out  the  solar  beams 

And  rained  incessant  torrents  on  the  thermal  seas. 

Time  grew  hoary  with  the  passing  ages, 

But  brought  not  quiet  to  the  infant  earth, 

Nor  stilled  the  elemental  war;  for  still 

The  clouds  were  reddened  by  volcanic  fires; 

The  forked  lightnings  gleamed;  muttering  thunders 

Echoed  through  the  cloudy  vault,  and  earthquakes 

Rent  the  quivering  orb! 

At  length  the  circling  ages  brought  repose; 

Vindictive  storms  no  longer  swept  the  earth; 

The  lightning's  flash  no  longer  constant  was, 

And  lower  burned  the  red  volcanic  fires. 

To  rumblings  low  had  sunk  the  thunder's  voice; 

With  rugged  peak  and  silent  arid  plain 

The  rent  and  scarred  earth  lay  bare  and  ragged ; 

Hideous  monsters  swam  the  thermal  seas, 

But  no  silvery  lake  within  the  valley  slept, 

Nor  dewdrop  glittered  in  the  beams  of  morn! 

Time  grew  weary  with  the  count  of  aeons, 
Ere  Nature's  solvents  and  mechanic  force 
Reduced  to  fertile  soil  the  flinty  rock; 


410  IMAGINARY    CONDENSATIONS. 

Ere  azure  skies  bent  o'er  the  infant  earth; 
Ere  drooping  willow  hung  o'er  mossy  stream; 
Ere  plant  was  watered  by  the  crystal  shower, 
Or  meadow  green  was  wet  with  morning  dew. 

From  inorganic  springs  organic  life  — 
The  ancient  seas  produced  primeval  life, 
Ere  law-engendering  from  the  earth  produced 
The  tree  and  plant,  which  of  their  kind  gave  birth 
To  flower  and  fruit,  which  conscious  life  sustains; 
And  when,  in  time,  these  things  appeared  on  earth, 
The  rosy  dawn  was  bright;  the  beast  at  noon 
Sought  the  refreshing  shade;  the  golden  cloud 
Hung  softly  o'er  the  setting  sun;  reptiles 
Crawled  in  reedy  brakes,  and  birds  sang  sweetly 
In  the  morning  air. 

Next  in  the  scale  of  conscious  being  came 
The  antetype  of  man;  a  thing  prophetic 
Of  a  higher  race  to  come;  for,  ever 
In  the  ascending  scale,  the  lower  form 
Foretells  the  coming  higher;  and  this  is  so 
Through  all  the  realms  of  being,  and  therefore  then, 
In  Wisdom's  eyes,  there  's  nothing  great  nor  small; 
All  their  appointed  places  strictly  fill  — 
The  dark,  ungainly  root  supports  the  flower; 
Foundation-stones  sustain  the  lofty  dome; 
And,  but  for  organs  that  perform  for  man 
The  lowest  office,  the  light  of  Reason's  lamp 
Could  ne'er  illume  the  palace  of  his  soul. 


of  ages  passed,  and  myriad  races 
Of  organic  beings  came  and  died  on  earth, 
Ere  on  the  wrecks  of  lost  and  perished  worlds 
Appeared  primeval  man,  latest  born  of  earth, 
And  with  a  reasoning  mind  that  made  him  lord 
Of  all  her  elder  offspring! 

Man,  from  the  general  law,  is  not  exempt; 

As  all  creation  is,  he  is  progressive  — 

Long  had  he  dwelt  on  earth  ere  Reason's  light 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  411 

Illumed  his  mind — he  roamed  earth's  ancient  woods; 
His  dwelling  was  the  rocky  cave;  his  food 
The  sylvan  fruits  uncultured  by  his  hand, 
And  flesh  of  bird  and  beast  he  could  entrap; 
His  naked  limbs  were  chilled  by  wintry  winds 
And  scorched  by  the  burning  sun  of  summer. 

Taught  by  his  needs,  he  learned  to  use  his  hands — 
With  sapling  bent,  and  branches  wove,  he  made 
A  shelter  rude  from  summer's  heat  and  winter's  cold; 
By  cunning  taught,  he  learned  to  make  the  bow 
With  which  to  slay  for  food  the  bird  and  beast. 

To  him  the  sun  was  a  benignant  power 

That  gave  him  light,  and  heat,  and  summer  fruit; 

The  lightning  was  a  demon's  fiery  glance, 

And  thunder  was  the  speech  of  angry  gods. 

The  powers  of  Nature  thus  to  him  became 

Celestial  beings,  or  infernal  gods, 

To  whom  he  bowed  with  superstitious  awe; 

And  thus  began  religious  worship. 

By  slow  degrees,  within  his  sluggish  mind 
Was  first  perception  of  the  useful  waked — 
From  rocky  cave  and  cliff  he  learned  design; 
With  rugged  stone  he  reared  a  dwelling  rude; 
From  flinty  rock  he  wrought  the  arrow-head 
And  point  of  spear  as  weapons  of  defence; 
He  learned  to  sow  and  reap,  and  pleasure  sought 
In  social  life;  and  thus  began  the  nations. 

The  light  of  Beauty  dawned  upon  his  soul — 
He  watched  the  play  of  light  on  Nature's  face, 
And  his  first  lesson  as  an  artist  took! 

From  stately  palm  and  willow  drooping  low, 
His  first  perception  came  of  graceful  form; 
From  arching  branches  in  the  forest  aisles, 
And  saplings  bent  to  form  his  summer  hut, 
Was  born  the  stately  dome  of  aftertimes. 

Advancing  further  in  mechanic  skill, 

He  reared  more  graceful  and  enduring  works — 


412  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

From  forest  oak,  which  as  a  strong  man  stands. 
Supporting  columns  sprang; 

Projecting  beams 

In  time  were  into  graceful  brackets  carved; 
And  thus  commenced  the  Greek  entablature. 

From  curling  vine,  and  flower,  and  leaf,  were  bom 
Volute  Ionic,  and  Corinthian  order. 
The  ancient  shepherd,  as  he  watched  his  flocks 
In  lands  now  sunk  beneath  the  rolling  seas, 
With  wonder  saw  the  changing  moon  and  stars. 
Whose  late  or  early  rise  and  setting  marked 
The  seasons,  and  by  them  he  measured  time, 
And  to  them  ascribed  mysterious  power 
And  influence  o'er  the  lives  and  fate  of  man! 
And  early  thus  commenced  that  science  grand, 
Which  led  the  searching  mind  of  man  to  roam 
Through  astronomic  fields,  and  him  has  taught 
To  measure  circle  and  elliptic  curve, 
Described  by  flaming  meteor  in  its  circle 
Of  an  hundred  centuries! 

Long  ere  inventive  man  had  learned  to  chain 
His  fleeting  thoughts  by  words  on  parchment  writ. 
The  rocky  tomb  was  reared  to  mark  the  spot 
Where  heroes,  kings,  and  mighty  warriors  slept; 
And  thus,  before  historic  pen  was  used, 
The  sculptor  wrought  upon  the  warrior's  tomb 
The  record  of  his  bold  and  daring  deeds, 
Hoping  thus  to  make  his  name  immortal. 

By  slow  degrees  in  the  ascending  scale, 

Man's  ever-active  mind  became  inventive — 

What,  with  his  naked  hands,  he  could  not  move. 

He  found  could  be  effected  by  the  lever; 

And  this  to  knowledge  led  of  other  powers 

And  force  mechanic,  by  the  use  of  which 

He  raised  the  ponderous  stones  which  now  are  found 

In  the  colossal  works  of  ancient  times. 

In  architecture  ne'er  was  yet  surpassed 
Ionic  grandeur  and  Corinthian  grace; 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  413 

From  the  insensate  marble  Phidias  waked 
The  sleeping  Graces;  and  Apelles  on 
The  glowing  canvas  left  a  name  immortal! 
Archimedes  and  Euclid  old  have  left 
In  geometric  and  mechanic  lore 
Bold  landmarks  on  the  shores  of  Time! 

But  not  till  later  ages  did  Science  bright, 
With  analytic  key,  unlock  the  door 
Of  Nature's  inner  temple,  and  with  flaming  torch 
Bid  man  explore  its  dark,  mysterious  caves — 

Before  the  beaming  glance  of  her  bright  eye, 
Dark  Superstition  fled  to  deeper  caves; 
And  backward  rolled  the  gloomy  clouds  of  night, 
Which  long  had  hung  o'er  man's  progressive  mind. 

With  magic  wand  she  touched  the  lightning's  wing! 
It  harmless  played  around  her  beaming  brow, 
And  to  her  will  became  a  passive  slave. 

In  captive-chains  she  bound  the  wildest  force, 
And  in  darkest  realms  the  subtlest  essence  sought, 
And  them  her  patient,  drudging  servants  made. 

And  thus  the  mighty  gods  of  ancient  times 
Became  the  slaves  of  man  in  later  years! 

The  winged  light  she  caught,  and  bade  it  tell 
The  secrets  of  the  distant  home  it  left 
An  hundred  ages  ere  man  appeared  on  earth — 
With  microscopic  glance  she  scanned  the  mote, 
And  in  it  saw  the  wreck  of  ruined  worlds; 
And  with  far-reaching  sight  she  has  explored 
The  realms  of  space,  measured  the  rolling  orb, 
And  told  the  number  of  its  days  and  years! 
And  thus  man,  from  a  rude  and  savage  state, 
Has  progress  made  in  intellectual  being. 

STUDENT. 

Thanks,  reverend  sage,  for  this  instructive  lesson; 
From  thee,  again,  I  '11  higher  knowledge  seek 
Of  things  I  much  desire  to  know. 

Santa  Catalina  Mountains,  Arizona,  1882. 


414  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

CONVERSATION  II. 

STUDENT    AND     PYTHAGORAS. 

STUDENT. 

FROM  his  bright  dwelling  in  the  higher  spheres, 
Will  now  the  Samian  sage  impart  to  me 
Such  further  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  life 
As  may  be  understood  by  one  of  earth  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

The  sensual  clouds  that  shroud  the  soul  of  man 
In  his  transient,  rudimental  life  on  earth, 
Are  often  pierced  by  rays  of  beaming  light 
From  the  bright  world  of  intellectual  being; 
But,  so  distorted  are  the  rays  of  light 
By  the  gross  media  through  which  they  pass, 
That  many  pictures  false  created  are, 
And  many  errors  are  by  man  committed, 
E'en  in  his  honest,  patient  search  for  truth. 

Already  hast  thou  seen  how  this  green  earth 

From  Nature's  all-engendering  womb  was  born; 

That  in  its  infant  age  no  azure  sky 

Hung  o'er  the  silver  lake  and  grassy  plain; 

Nor  browsing  herd  the  meadow  roamed;  nor  bird 

Sang  sweetly  in  the  leafy  grove;  nor  flower 

Its  fragrance  breathed  upon  the  summer  air, — 

An  orb  it  was,  with  rolling  thunders  charged, 

In  forked  lightnings  clothed,  and  rent  and  scorched 

By  heaving  earthquakes  and  by  fiery  storms. 

Creative  laws  are  but  the  laws  of  change, 
And  they  progressive  are;  the  lower  form 
Precedes,  and  ever,  by  unerring  sign, 
Predicts  the  coming  higher;  and  this  is  so 
In  all  organic  life — from  moss  and  lichen 
To  highest  form  of  plant;  from  lowest  mollusk 
To  highest  type  of  upright  human  form. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  415 

In  the  creative  order,  the  mineral 
On  earth  was  formed  in  Nature's  laboratory 
Long  ere  organic  life  was  seen  thereon ; 
And  this,  in  time,  appeared  in  form  of  plant 
And  tree,  and  bird  and  beast,  and  last  in  man, 
The  crowning  product  of  this  earthly  sphere! 

Behold  how  Nature  in  progressive  order 
Into  being  calls  all  sensuous  life  on  earth: 
A  creature  first  was  formed,  so  low  in  type, 
And  in  organic  structure  simply  rude, 
That//tfw^  it  more  than  sensuous  being  seemed. 
This  lower  order  step  by  step  progressed, 
Until  more  perfect  forms  were  reached,  and  these 
Of  higher  forms  of  being  still  foretold. 

The  mollusk  races  dwelt  in  ancient  seas 
Long  ages  ere  the  myriad  finny  tribes 
Swam  the  silver  lake,  or  in  sportive  play 
Gambolled  in  oceans  blue  that  mirrored  back 
The  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  heavens. 

Next  in  creative  order,  a  creature  came 
By  Nature  formed  to  swim  the  lake  and  sea 
As  cleaves  the  bird  the  ambient  air;  and  this 
Predictive  was  of  bird  with  plumage  bright 
And  voice  of  dulcet  note,  which  should  in  time 
Awake  the  earth  with  sylvan  melody! 

But  many  intermediate  steps  are  found 
Between  the  finny  tribes  of  ocean  blue 
And  the  gay  songsters  of  the  vernal  grove — 

The  fin  of  fish  foretold  the  wing  of  bird, 
And  foot  was  formed  to  tread  the  rolling  deep 
Ere  horny  hoof  was  made  to  walk  the  earth, 
Or  claw  of  beast,  to  rend  the  captive  prey; 

And  hideous  monsters  intermediate  came 
Between  the  finny  tribes  and  quadrumana; 
All  these  foretold  a  huge,  amphibious  race, 
That  slept  in  dismal  swamps  and  reedy  brakes, 
And  swam  dark,  stagnant  pools  in  search  of  food. 


416  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

And  these,  by  clear,  suggestive  signs,  foretold 
The  quadrumanous  race,  with  graceful  limb 
To  tread  the  grassy  earth,  or  climb  the  tree 
In  search  of  food,  or  for  protection  seek; 
And  with  the  quadrumana  that  tread  the  earth, 
Came  the  feathered  songsters  of  the  vernal  grove, 
Which  had  by  finny  tribes  predicted  been. 

Next  in  the  order  came  a  higher  form, 
With  limb  to  stand  erect,  and  hand  to  pluck 
The  ripened  fruit,  and  gather  boughs  to  make 
A  shelter  from  summer  suns  and  wintry  storms. 

And  last  in  the  progressive  order,  came 

The  race  of  man!  with  graceful,  upright  form; 

With  lofty,  intellectual  brow;  with  eye 

Of  beaming  light,  and  hand  of  cunning  form, 

Long  predicted  by  anterior  races. 

STUDENT. 

Does  then  Pythagoras  teach  that,  from  the  lower 
Were  evolved  the  higher  forms  in  Nature  ? 
That,  by  culture  and  improvement,  the  lower 
May  in  time  become  the  higher? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Hadst  thou  a  sight  of  all-embracing  range, 
With  microscopic  glance  to  scan  the  least, 
And  macroscopic  power  to  comprehend 
The  greatest  in  Nature's  universe  of  matter, 
Then  couldst  thou  see  the  harmonious  order 
In  which  are  placed  material  forms  on  earth; 
The  perfect  chain  from  things  of  lowest  type 
To  highest  form  of  life  organic;  of  which, 
Each  link  is  found  in  its  appointed  place; 
The  lowest  bound  to  gross,  material  form, — 
The  highest  lost  in  vast  infinitude, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  ken  of  finite  sight! 
Each  link,  more  bright  becoming  in  the  ascent 
Toward  the  realm  of  Love  and  Beauty. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  417 

In  this  grand  chain,  each  link  is  marked  by  being 
Which  to  its  state  belongs;  and  which,  although 
It  cannot  reach  a  higher  link,  foretells 
Of  higher  links  which  to  that  chain  belong. 

This  all  Nature  teaches,  where'er  you  look — 
Behold  the  human  hand  of  cunning  form! 
Long  ere  the  race  of  man  was  seen  on  earth, 
That  graceful,  cunning  hand  had  been  foretold 
By  foot  of  savage  beast,  with  fingers  four, 
And  thumb  of  rudimental  form. 

The  mollusk  race,  by  picture  clearly  wrought 
Within  its  soft  and  boneless  form,  foretells 
The  coming  vertebra  of  form  complex. 

And  thus  is  linked  the  lower  to  the  higher 
Through  all  the  organic  realms  of  Nature, 
All  forming  one  grand,  harmonious  whole — 
From  dark  foundation-stone  to  turret  lost 
In  regions  of  celestial  beauty! 

And  this  is  Nature's  temple,  whose  lofty  arches 
Ever  echo  to  the  sounding  anthem 
Which  in  harmonious  numbers  upward  rolls 
From  Creation's  countless  forms  of  being — 
From  cricket  chirping  on  the  cottage  hearth, 
To  hymn  of  praise  by  an  archangel  sung! 
From  trembling  chord  of  music's  softest  note, 
To  the  fierce  howling  of  the  angry  storm! 
From  atom  floating  on  the  evening  breeze, 
To  mightiest  orb  that  lights  the  realms  of  space! 

All  language  used  by  man  too  feeble  is 

To  paint  the  pictures  by  the  mind  conceived; 

No  written  word,  by  poet  ever  penned, 

Nor  vocal  sound,  by  voice  of  sweetest  note, 

Nor  picture  bright,  in  rainbow  colors  wrought 

By  highest  art,  can  give  the  form  exact 

Of  fleeting  Thought;  nor  with  precision  clear, 

Explain  the  laws  of  intellectual  being; 


4i8  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

Hence,  in  the  interchange  of  human  thought, 
Misunderstandings  oft  arise. 

Creation  never  is  a  special  act; 
But  the  result  of  ever-constant  laws 
Which  shape  and  govern  all  material  forms, 
From  the  organic  life  of  lowest  grade 
To  that  of  highest  intellectual  being. 

As  has  been  shown,  creation  is  progressive — 

In  the  mighty  circle  of  existence, 

Each  point  by  its  conditions  is  controlled; 

And  whene'er  these  conditions  changed  are, 

The  form  of  being  is  compelled  to  change, 

And  hence,  creation  is  nought  but  change  of  form. 

When  in  progressive  life  this  earth  had  reached 

A  point  where  organic  being  was  required, 

In  prompt  obedience  to  imperious  law 

It  straight  appeared  in  lowest  form  of  life; 

This  form  its  period  of  existence  had, 

While  the  conditions  of  its  birth  remained — 

When  these  had  ceased,  that  form  of  being  passed  away 

And  left  no  record  save  in  mountain  rock, 

O'er  which  once  rolled  the  ancient  seas  of  earth. 

And  thus  have  come  and  gone  the  countless  races 

Which,  in  obedience  to  creative  law, 

Have  formed  the  chain  of  being  on  your  earth  — 

From  lowest  link  to  intellectual  man; 

Remains  of  which  are  found  on  mountain  top, 

In  ocean  depths,  on  burning  arid  plain, 

'Mid  Arctic  snows,  in  shady  tropic  groves, 

And  in  the  fruitful  vale  and  meadow  green 

They  form  the  soil  from  which  the  harvest  springs! 

STUDENT. 

But  tell  me,  ancient  sage,  why  do  we  find 

That  many  early  races  still  exist 

In  common  with  earth's  present  habitants  ? 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  419 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Conditions  of  their  birth  existing  still 
In  common  with  others  of  a  higher  order, 
These  primal  beings  still  are  found  on  earth 
Side  by  side  with  beings  of  a  higher  form. 
Ere  man  had  lived,  the  ape  was  found  on  earth, 
And  still  upon  it  dwells  with  lordly  man; 
Conditions  of  his  life  existing  still- 
When  these  have  ceased,  he  too  will  disappear, 
Like  other  races  that  have  dwelt  on  earth 
And  left  no  record  save  in  silent  rock. 
This  is  the  order  of  Creative  Law, 
By  which  all  forms  of  matter  are  controlled, 
And  all  organic  being  called  to  life; 
Each  atom  taking  its  appointed  place, 
And  every  sensuous  being  its  allotted  part 
In  the  great  Drama  of  the  Universe. 

STUDENT. 

As  the  radiant  beams  of  rising  morn 
Dispel  the  curtaining  clouds  of  gloomy  night, 
So  have  the  teachings  of  the  Samian  sage 
Illumed  a  mind  in  earnest  search  of  truth; 
But  more  I  seek  to  know;  still  deeper  yet 
Would  I  sound  the  mysteries  of  creation; 
The  laws  of  generation  I  would  learn, 
And  how  they  work  to  bring  to  life  and  being 
The  wondrous  panorama  of  existence! 
This,  I  with  deep  and  earnest  reverence  seek, 
To  satisfy  an  ever-craving  thirst. 

PYTHAGORAS. 

The  mind  of  man  for  knowledge  ever  seeks 

Because  it  is  a  birthright,  by  it  received 

From  that  bright  source  from  whence  its  being  sprang; 

Therefore,  as  the  vapor  sunward  rises, 

The  human  mind  perforce  for  knowledge  seeks, 

And  to  it  there  is  no  forbidden  ground — 

Where'er  its  wings  have  strength  to  bear  its  flight, 

It  has  a  right  to  soar  in  search  of  truth. 


420  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

No  being  in  the  universe  can  write 
The  whole  history  of  its  own  existence — 
The  dewdrop  cannot  tell  how  it  was  formed; 
The  flower  explain  the  law  that  gave  it  birth; 
The  Finite  give  the  history  of  its  being, 
Nor  the  Infinite  tell  from  whence  it  sprang! 

The  laws  of  Nature  act  in  dual  force 

In  the  creation  of  material  forms; 

And  this  is  so  through  all  the  realms  of  Nature — 

From  mineral,  sleeping  in  the  deepest  mine, 

To  life  organic  of  the  highest  form. 

These  dual  forces,  in  all  creations 
The  actors  are;  they  meet  to  form  the  plant, 
To  shape  the  dewdrop,  and  the  mightiest  orb 
That  lights  the  solemn,  soundless  depths  of  space! 
They  gild  the  morning  cloud,  and  give  the  rose 
Its  blushing  hue!  they  guide  the  winged  light, 
Direct  the  storm,  and  to  the  evening  breeze 
Give  its  low-whispering  voice!    Creators  are 
Of  every  living  form — from  smallest  gnat, 
Whose  life  is  measured  by  a  summer's  day, 
To  godlike  man,  upon  whose  lofty  brow 
Immortal  Reason  grandly  sits  enthroned! 
No  lone  creator  of  material  forms 
Is  ever  found  in  Nature's  realm  of  being— 
Where'er  creation  is,  companionship 
Is  ever  found. 

Hadst  thou  a  spirit's  vision,  unobscured 

By  the  gross  medium  of  thine  earthly  form, 

Then  the  action  of  these  dual  forces 

Thou  couldst  see  in  the  birth  and  growth  of  plants. 

The  highest  product  of  the  plant  is  fruit; 
When  it  has  yielded  this,  with  seed  (the  germ 
Of  a  new  and  like  existence),  it  dies — 
And  to  the  bosom  of  the  earth  returns 
To  mingle  with  its  primal  elements, 
And  thus  completes  the  circle  of  its  life. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  421 

The  higher  we  ascend  the  scale  of  being, 
The  more  complex  becomes  organic  structure, 
And  wider  is  the  circle  of  existence. 

As  these  forces  the  humble  plant  produce, — 

By  dual  action  they  into  being  bring 

The  countless  forms  of  lower  sensuous  life. 

Ascending  higher  in  the  scale  of  being, 

We  reach  the  intellectual,  moral  realm, 

Where  still  this  dual  action  we  behold 

In  Creation's  loftiest  work  on  earth, — 

Construction  of  a  transient  home  for  man! 

He  who,  of  all  the  sons  of  earth,  alone 

Has  power,  in  thought,  to  reach  the  realm  of  Cause, 

And  ever  keep  the  chain  of  memory  bright. 

STUDENT. 

Are  the  creations,  then,  of  earthly  forms, 
Of  all  that  we  behold — of  plant  and  flower, 
Of  bird  and  beast,  and  last,  of  lordly  man, — 
Nought  but  result  of  ever-constant  laws 
Which  act  in  dual  forms  in  their  creation  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

In  all  creations  e'er  beheld  on  earth, 
From  that  of  lowest  form  material  to  that 
Of  highest  type  of  living,  sensuous  being, 
These  dual  forces  are  the  constant  means 
By  which  all  forms  material  are  created. 

Behold  the  action  of  these  dual  laws 
In  the  ever-changing  forms  of  matter: 

Two  colors  blend,  and  lo!  a  third  is  born; 
Two  chemic  elements  together  wed, — 
Each  one,  when  by  itself,  all  harmless  is, 
But  their  offspring  is  a  deadly  poison. 

A  passive  flower,  in  female  beauty  blooms, — 
In  prompt  obedience  to  creative  law, 
A  wooing  breeze,  upon  its  gentle  wings, 


422  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

Bears  to  the  attracting,  passive  flower 
The  principle  prolific, — and  behold! 
The  fruit  is  born. 

Two  little  songsters  of  the  grove,  impelled 
By  Nature's  all-imperious  laws,  construct 
A  cunning  cradle  for  the  new  creations 
Which  they  with  love  and  patience  long  await! 

With  new  and  strange  delight  the  bosom  thrills, 
When,  with  harmonious  touch,  the  dual  chords 
Are  waked  by  Nature's  whispering  voice  of  love, 
And  leaps  the  heart  with  joy  at  the  first  sound 
That  in  the  bosom  wakes  a  mother's  love! 

And  this  is  Nature's  marriage,  and  these  the  laws 
Creative  that  rule  the  boundless  realms  of  being. 

In  all  the  realms  below  organic  life, 
These  laws  but  as  recipric  forces  act; 
Attracting  and  repelling,  until  all 
In  harmonious  order  is  arranged. 

The  higher  we  ascend  the  scale  of  being, 
The  more  distinctly  marked  these  forces  are: 

The  flower  its  bosom  turns  towards  the  light, 

And  yearning  waits  the  coming  of  its  mate, 

But  weeps  not  when  the  bridegroom  cometh  not; 

The  ewe,  bereaved,  bewails  her  lambkin  lost, 

And  for  a  time  will  not  be  comforted, — 

But,  soon  forgetful, —  consolation  finds. 

And,  with  deep  affection,  the  parent  bird 

Her  unfledged  offspring  guards,  and  mourns  for  them 

When  rudely  torn  from  her. 

But  not  until 

Is  reached  the  realm  of  intellectual  being, 
Do  we  meet  the  spirit  bright  of  Love  Divine 
In  all  its  pure  and  radiant  beauty; 
Which,  in  harmonious  order,  all  things  keeps — 
From  highest  realms  of  light— to  Nature's  caves 
Of  deepest  darkness. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  423 

Behold  with  reverence  these  mysterious  laws 
Which  rule  the  realms  of  universal  being; 
Which,  in  the  lowest,  are  but  forces  blind 
That  by  attraction  and  repulsion  act; 
Not  manifesting  aught  of  moral  sense, 
But  which,  in  the  higher  realms  of  being, 
Become  bright  spirits  of  Creative  Love! 

Whene'er  these  duals  in  sweet  concord  meet, 
Creation's  temple  beams  with  rosy  light, 
And  Nature's  face  is  wreathed  in  smiles  of  love! 
But  when  harsh  discord  breaks  these  dual  chords, 
Dark  shadows  then  becloud  her  beauteous  face 
As  she  beholds  her  altars  thus  defiled. 

STUDENT. 

Thanks,  sage  of  Samos!  now  have  I  something  learned 
Of  the  operation  of  creative  laws; 
Again  from  thee  I  '11  further  knowledge  seek. 

Tucson,  Arizona,  1883. 


424  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

CONVERSATION  III. 

STUDENT    AND     PYTHAGORAS. 

STUDENT. 

Now  tell  me,  ancient  sage,  when  wrapped  in  sleep, 

Whence  come  the  forms  so  weird,  as  seen  in  dreams, 

That  gather  round  the  midnight  couch  of  man  ? 

Are  they  disjointed  fragments  of  the  past, 

Or  glimpses  of  another  land  than  earth, 

Which  the  ever-wakeful  mind  may  sometimes  catch 

While  wrapped  in  sleep  the  unconscious  body  lies? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Of  Death  sweet  Sleep  the  gentle  sister  is— 
All  life  organic  has  its  times  of  rest; 
At  set  of  sun,  the  flow' ret  folds  its  leaves 
And  seeks  in  dewy  sleep  refreshing  rest; 
The  bird  finds  shelter  in  its  leafy  home, 
And  weary  man  in  slumber  seeks  repose. 

Whene'er  the  senses  are  in  slumber  locked, 

The  body,  in  a  certain  sense,  is  dead — 

For  though  it  breathe,  and  though  life's  currents  flow, 

'Tis  all  unconscious  of  surrounding  things — 

It  no  conception  has  of  time  nor  place, 

Nor  judgment  such,  as  in  waking  hours  is  used; 

Hence  the  sleeper  may,  without  surprise,  hold 

Converse  with  those  who  long  since  left  the  earth, 

Nor  think  it  strange  that  bird  and  beast  may  speak! 

But,  while  in  sleep,  the  organs  through  which  the  mind 

Perception  has  of  all  material  things 

Lie  dormant  and  unconscious,  the  mind  itself, 

(That  ever-active  Ego  which  never  sleeps), 

May  visit  other  realms  than  those  of  earth, 

And  sights  may  see  ne'er  viewed  by  mortal  eye, 

And  voices  hear  far  sweeter  to  the  ear 

Than  e'er  upon  it  fell  in  waking  hours. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  425 

In  sleep  the  mind  to  the  body  still  is  bound — 
Hence,  dreams  are  often  strangely  wild  and  weird; 
Sometimes  are  pictures  bright  of  beauteous  things; 
Sometimes  of  monstrous  forms  and  ghastly  shapes, 
And  sometimes  memories  of  our  waking  lives, 
Which  in  wild  fragments  to  the  mind  return. 

As  gentle  sleep  refreshment  brings  to  man 
When  ended  is  the  weary  day  of  toil, 
So  Death,  the  kind  Angel  of  Transition, 
When  ended  is  the  stormy  day  of  life, 
With  gentle  hand  the  weary  lays  to  rest; 
With  magic  touch  he  breaks  the  cord  that  binds 
The  spirit  in  its  prison  house  of  clay, 
And  freedom  gives  the  bird  of  Paradise! 

As,  at  the  birth  of  mortal  life  on  earth, 
The  new-born  infant  is  by  gentle  hands 
Received,  and  nurtured  with  the  tenderest  care, — 
So,  when  the  spirit  from  the  earth  departs 
And  enters  on  a  higher  state  of  being, — 
'Tis  there  received  by  hands  of  gentlest  touch, 
And  soothed  by  words  as  soft  as  e'er  were  breathed 
By  earthly  mother  o'er  her  new-born  babe. 

Then  think  not  that  the  closing  hour  of  life 
Is  dark  and  lonely  to  the  passing  one; 
For,  through  the  longest  life  of  man  on  earth, 
Ne'er  fell  upon  his  sight  a  scene  so  grand 
As  that  which  he  beholds  when  first  is  raised 
The  curtain  dark  that  veils  from  mortal  sight 
The  glorious  beauties  of  the  Land  of  Love! 

STUDENT. 

Then,  'tis  not  true  that  man  created  was 
As  innocent  and  pure  as  angels  are  ? 
And  that,  from  such  estate,  he  fell  by  sin, 
And  thus  incurred  the  penalty  of  death  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

The  simple  innocence  of  primal  man 

Was  like  that  which  the  prowling  tiger  knows 


426  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

While  it  devours  the  lamb  it  slayed  for  food; 
And  Death,  as  the  Angel  of  Transition, 
Preforms  for  man  in  life's  dissolving  scene 
The  last  kind  office  that  he  needs  on  earth. 

STUDENT. 

Do  dwellers  of  the  higher  spheres  themselves 
Surround  with  things  of  beauty,  such  as  plants, 
And  flowers,  and  shady  groves,  and  meadows  green? 
Does  marble  palace  stand  by  silver  lake, 
And  vine-clad  cottage  by  the  winding  stream  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

No  form  whatever  can  preceive"d  be, 

Save  through  the  aid  of  matter;  nor  can  the  mind 

Conceive  of  aught  that  feeling  wakes  of  love, 

Or  hate,  or  hope,  or  dark  despair,  unless 

To  such  thought  material  form  be  given. 

Man's  works,  to  some  extent,  reflect  his  thoughts; 
And  this  is  true — where'er  he  may  exist — 
On  earth,  or  in  the  higher  realms  of  being! 

The  savage  builds  a  hut  of  rudest  form, 

Which  he  adorns  with  trophies  of  the  chase 

And  gory  scalps  of  foes  in  battle  slain; 

Of  Parian  marble  Ambition  rears  a  palace; 

While  the  Poet  the  vine-clad  cottage  loves, 

Where  summer  breezes  breathe  the  breath  of  flowers, 

And  songs  of  birds  are  mingled  with  the  voice 

Of  murmuring  silver  streams. 

And,  as  on  earth, — 

So  in  the  life  of  higher  rea/»ts,—each  one 
Himself  surrounds  by  things  his  mind  creates: 
The  Poet  lives  amid  the  things  he  loves, 
And  fragrant  flowers  of  rarest  beauty  bloom 
Around  the  pictured  home  where  dwells  the  artist, 
While  birds  of  sweetest  note  awake  the  morn 
\Vith  sylvan  music,  and  lull  the  day  to  rest 
With  songs  of  love. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  427 

But  while  the  pure  and  bright  will  make  their  homes 

In  marble  hall,  in  vine-clad  cottage  low, 

Within  the  shade  of  ever-vernal  groves, 

In  sunny  woodland  vale  or  meadow  green, 

Where  flowers  of  beauty  ever  freshly  bloom 

And  birds  of  rarest  plumage  ever  sing, — 

The  soul  depraved,  which,  while  it  dwelt  on  earth, 

Ne'er  saw  the  light  which  beams  from  higher  realms, 

But  always  wallowed  in  the  sensual  pool, 

Nor  pleasure  found,  save  in  degrading  lusts, — 

Will  dwell  'mid  shadows  dark  of  uncouth  things, 

The  offspring  of  its  sensual  life  on  earth, 

And  there  remain,  until  the  Light  Divine 

(Which,  though  obscured,  is  not  extinguished  quite), 

Lead  it  to  seek  a  higher  realm  of  being! 

STUDENT. 

In  the  ethereal  realms  which  you  describe, 
You  speak  of  flowery  fields,  and  vernal  groves; 
Of  meadows  green,  and  winding,  silver  streams; 
Of  dwellings  bright,  and  all  such  lovely  things 
As  ornament  the  beauteous  homes  of  earth — 
What  will  there  be  the  soul's  companionship  ? 
Do  sexes  there  exist  as  here  on  earth  ? 
And  that  mysterious  law  which  has  ordained 
That  no  companionship  can  perfect  be 
Save  where  harmonious  love  the  sexes  join  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

No  moral  being  can  all  lonely  dwell 
And  happy  be,  is  Nature's  stern  decree! 

From  forces  acting  in  harmonious  order 
Are  ever  born  the  curving  forms  of  grace; 
From  two  balanced  forces  springs  the  circle, 
Symbolic  of  love  and  beauty. 

Look  where  you  will, — o'er  Nature's  wide  domain, — 
You  see  in  plant  and  tree,  in  flower  and  leaf, 
This  constant  symbol  of  harmonious  love. 


428  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

No  happiness  is  found  where  love  is  not; 
Love  never  dwells  save  with  sweet  harmony; 
And  this  but  in  companionship  is  found! 

As  well  expect  to  meet  the  tropic  flower 
Upon  the  Arctic  iceberg,  as  hope  to  find 
True  happiness  without  companionship; 
Or  seek  for  beauty  in  a  line  direct, 
As  look  for  it  in  lonely,  abstract  thought. 

The  same  dual  and  harmonious  laws 

That  mark  on  earth  the  sexual  forms  of  life, 

Continue  still  in  higher  realms  of  being; 

But  love,  with  those  who  've  reached  the  higher  life, 

Compared  with  that  which  thrills  the  soul  of  man 

Amid  the  sensual  scenes  of  earthly  life, — 

Is  as  the  rosy  light  that  wakes  the  morn 

To  the  lurid  glare  of  fierce,  volcanic  flame, 

Which  from  combustion  springs  of  vilest  things. 

STUDENT. 

Whence  comes  the  soul  of  man,  that  viewless  essence 

From  which  bright  Thought  is  born  and  Reason  springs  ? 

Does  its  being  with  the  body's  life  commence, 

Or  does  it  spring  from  some  Infinite  Source  ? 

Is  its  existence  here  upon  the  earth 

But  one  stage  in  an  infinite  journey 

Towards  the  Eternal  Source  from  whence  it  sprang  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Spirit,  like  Truth — eternal  is — because 
It  is  Divine!  it  ne'er  was  born,  and  hence 
Can  never  die;  nor  can  it  tarnished  be, 
Although  its  light  be  for  a  time  obscured 
By  the  coarse  garb  in  which  it  may  be  clothed. 

All  forms  of  matter  evanescent  are, 
And  change  is  writ  on  all  that  man  beholds; 
But  spirit, —  though  in  its  action  it  is  dual, — 
In  essence  unchanging  and  eternal  is. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  429 

Were  all  material  forms  at  once  resolved 

Back  to  their  elements  invisible, 

The  laws  that  regulate  the  square  and  cube, 

And  that  control  elliptic  curve  and  circle, 

Would  still  remain  unchanged;  although  no  power 

Could  demonstrate  these  laws  to  mortal  sight. 

Nor  can  spirit  ever  manifested  be, 

Save  through  the  myriad  forms  which  are  beheld 

On  Nature's  face  of  everlasting  change: 

In  mountain  rock,  in  tree  and  plant,  in  flower, 

In  meadow  green  and  forest  hoar,  in  storm, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shower,  in  rosy  morn 

And  dewy  eve,  and  in  the  shades  of  night; 

And  highest  in  the  human  face  divine! 

Pure  spirit,  until  in  matter  it  is  clothed, 
Like  law,  makes  manifest  no  moral  sense; 
'Tis  stern  as  is  a  line  direct,  and  cold 
As  is  the  ice  of  Neptune's  wintry  sphere; 
But,  when  in  a  material  garb  't  is  clothed, 
And  it  has  reached  the  scale  of  sensuous  life,— 
A  being  it  becomes  of  moral  sense, 
Endowed  with  all  the  passions  of  the  soul: 
Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  lofty  Aspiration! 

When  in  man  the  spirit  incarnated  is, 
The  being  then  is  said  to  be  immortal, — 
Since,  before  it  lies  a  conscious  future, 
Too  vast  for  comprehension  of  the  mind; 
For,  't  is  manifest,  a  future  it  may  have 
So  long  as  exist  the  moral  passions: 
Love  and  Hope,  Desire  and  Aspiration! 
When  Hope  no  longer  of  the  future  sings, 
The  soul  must  on  the  Infinite  Bosom  rest. 

Man's  body,  like  the  plant,  is  born  of  earth, 
And,  like  the  plant,  it  to  the  earth  returns, — 
Dropped  like  a  worn-out  garment  by  the  way; 
While  the  soul  goes  on  its  conscious  journey 
Towards  the  source  from  whence  it  sprang! 


430  LVAGIXAKY    CONVERSATIONS. 

STUDENT. 

A  question  bold  I  now  would  ask  of  thee: 
What  is,  and  where  dwells  the  Infinite  Cause  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

The  Universal  Father,  however  called 

By  man— Jehovah,  Brahma,  Jove,  or  God — 

Is  the  spirit  pure,  of  all  that  being  has; 

Eternal  Source  of  that  unchanging  Law 

Which  with  precision  rules  the  Universe; 

The  Infinite  Fountain,  from  which  issues 

All  life  and  motion  in  material  things, 

And  all  the  thought  that  marks  the  conscious  being; 

But,  what  the  essence  of  this  being  is, 

The  loftiest  individual  Mind  that  dwells 

In  highest  realms  of  Thought,  no  more  can  tell 

Than  of  the  cause  that  gave  the  rose  its  life. 

Infinite,  too,  its  everlasting  dwelling  is! 
With  it,  there  is  nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  past, 
Nor  future;  nought  but  the  Eternal  Now  ! 
In  essence  't  is  as  formless  and  as  cold 
As  is  the  spirit  of  Eternal  Law, 
But  through  material  forms  in  sensuous  life 
It  manifests  the  moral  attributes. 

It  gives  the  dawn  its  roseate  hue,  and  paints 

The  sunset  clouds;  it  shapes  the  lily's  form, 

And  gives  the  blooming  rose  its  fragrant  breath; 

It  starts  the  tear  in  Pity's  eye,  and  wakes 

The  heaving  sigh  in  Mercy's  gentle  breast; 

'Tis  seen  upon  the  infant's  smiling  face 

And  in  the  sweet  blush  of  love  that  mantles 

On  the  maiden's  blooming  cheek;  its  voice  is  heard 

Upon  the  trembling  lute;  in  mountain  storm, 

In  sighing  evening  breeze,  and  song  of  bird; 

And  sweetest,  when  in  melting  tones  are  sung 

The  gentle  songs  of  love — for  God  is  Love — 

And  Love  is  the  Infinite  Soul  that  thrills 

The  moral  Universe,  from  darkest  caves 

To  highest  realms  of  intellectual  light! 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  43* 

All  being  forever  in  eternal  rounds 
Itself  repeats  in  everlasting  circles: 

The  plant  returns  to  dust,  from  whence  it  sprang, 

But  to  become  a  tree  or  plant  again! 

The  cloud  of  vapory  form  ascends  from  earth, 

And  to  the  earth  returns  in  fruitful  showers! 

The  rolling  orb  upon  its  axis  turns! 

The  planet, — in  its  circling  orbit  moves. — 

And  revolving  systems  periods  mark 

That  tell  the  cycles  of  eternity! 

Man's  mortal  body  from  the  earth  was  born, 

And  to  its  fruitful  womb  again  returns; 

His  spirit  springs  from  the  Eternal  Source, 

Becomes  a  moral  being  when  incarnated, — 

Endowed  with  all  the  passions  of  the  soul, — 

And  with  Immortal  Reason  for  its  guide 

Begins  the  mighty  journey;  along  which, 

In  aeons  gone,  it  may  have  passed  before! 

(Since  the  present  is  but  what  before  has  been); 

For  brightest  individual  Mind  that  dwells 

In  regions  of  sublimest  Thought  was  once 

A  mortal  dweller  on  some  lowly  earth ; 

And  so,  the  humblest  mortal  son  of  earth, 

Led  by  the  Light  Divine  that  beams  within, 

May  reach  the  point  where  dwells  the  loftiest  Mind! 

STUDENT. 

Your  teachings,  ancient  sage, 
To  me  are  clear  as  Reason's  purest  light, 
And  pleasant  as  the  notes  of  melody; 
Since  the  laws  of  Nature,  as  by  you  explained, 
Are  based  on  Justice  and  on  Love  Divine, 
And  no  spirit  of  vindictive  anger  show. 

PYTHAGORAS. 

The  doctrine  of  vindictive  punishment 
Was  born  of  Darkness,  by  Ignorance  nursed, 
And  ever  is  by  Superstition  cherished. 
The  wise  and  loving  father  never  can 


432  IMAGINARY    CO\l'ERSATIO\S. 


vindictive  hand  his  children 
E*en  Justice,  the  sternest  attribute  divine. 
Ne'er  speaks  to  erring  ones  in  voice  vindictive, 
And  though  it  punishment  inflict,  't  is  ever 
In  sweet  Mercy's  sight,  and  never  can  be  more 
Than  she  is  forced  to  say  is  just  and  right 
Infinite  Wisdom,  through  Love  and  Justice, 
Rules  the  realms  of  moral  being,  and  each  one 
Takes  the  place  he  has  for  himself  prepared. 


and  Love 
of  waking  harp, 

unheard  before; 
And  me  impels  to  seek  thee  yet  again. 

T KM*.  Arizona,  iB*. 


IMAGINARY    COXl'ERSATIOXS.  433 


CONVERSATION   IV. 

STUDENT.    PYTHAGORAS.    AND    ANCIENT    ONE. 
STUDENT. 

TELL  me.  sage  of  Samos.  if  this  thou  canst: 

When  shall  I  find  surcease  from  this  unrest; 

This  everlasting  yearning  of  the  soul 

For  that  which  lies  beyond  its  highest  reach  ? — 

\\111  e'er  the  spirit  find  a  restful  sleep 

In  some  far  future  land  of  rosy  dreams  ? 

PYTHAGORAS. 

Inquiring  mortal!  an  Ancient  One  is  here; 

One  who  had  long  an  "  Ancient  been  of  Days," 

Or  ere  Pythagoras  saw  the  light  of  earth! 

One  who  had  watched  the  birth  and  death  of  worlds: 

Had  seen  them  born  as  bloom  the  flowers  of  spring. 

And  perish  as  fades  the  withered  autumn  leaf; 

Vet  from  sublimest  realms  descends  to  earth 

To  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  dewy  spring: 

To  list  the  skylark  sing  its  morning  song. 

And  teach  thee  wisdom! 

He  now  will  answer  thee. 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

\Vouldst  thou  learn  wisdom,  son  of  earth  ?    Then  list 
To  Nature's  voice!    And  happy  wouldst  thou  be, 
And  find  that  peace  for  which  thy  soul  now  yearns  ? 
In  concord  live  with  her  unchanging  Lv   - 

Despise  not  the  small;  nor  aught  consider  mean; 
For  wreck  of  ruined  world  imports  no  more 
Than  withered  leaf  upon  the  autumn  wind; 
And  budding  flower  a  marvel  is  as  great 
As  is  the  birth  of  mightiest  rolling  orb! 

Seek  not  to  unveil  the  hidden  source  of  Life. 
Nor  search  the  dwelling-place  of  Thought  Divine; 


434  IMAGIXAKY    CONVERSATIONS. 

But  be  content  with  what  thou  now  mayst  learn, 
And  with  patience  wait  the  higher  knowledge. 
The  slumbering  chrysalis  can  nothing  know 
Of  what  awaits  the  gay-winged  butterfly 
Amid  the  blooming  flowers  of  sunny  spring; 
Nor  can  the  voiceless  fish  e'er  learn  the  song 
That 's  carolled  by  the  warbling  bird. 

A-  from  the  Samian  sage  already  learned, 
All  forms  their  circles  of  existence  have.— 
From  lowest  life  to  highest  type  of  being; 
And  fleeting  are  as  sounding  notes  that  tell 
The  Poet's  thoughts,  or  colors  bright  that  paint 
The  glowing  pictures  by  the  Artist  wrought! 

The  snowflake  melts  beneath  the  morning  sun; 
The  violet  fades  before  the  autumn's  breath; 
The  forest  oak  decays,  and  dies  of  age; 
The  flinty  rock  becomes  the  summer  dust, 
And  rolling  orb  and  flaming  star  in  time 
Will  pass  as  do  the  drops  of  morning  dew, 
And  into  other  forms  of  being  change! 
But  spirit — which  to  matter  gives  its  form  — 
As  law,  unchanging  and  eternal  is. 

Behold  the  myriad  forms  assumed  by  being 
In  its  ascent  from  lowest  caves  of  darkness 
To  realms  of  light  and  beauty!  expressing  each 
That  fomi  of  life  to  which  its  sphere  belongs; 
Each  atom  filling  its  appointed  place, 
And  all  in  harmonious  order  moving 
In  strict  obedience  to  Eternal  Law; 
Receiving  life,  and  thought,  and  moral  sense 
All  from  the  same  Infinite  Source  unknown; 
Though  differing  in  degree,  the  same  in  kind. 

The  same  Infinite  Overruling  Power 

That  guides  the  atom  on  the  wandering  breeze, 

Directs  the  storm  and  rules  the  rolling  orb! 

The  same  Infinite  Wisdom's  law  that  bids 
The  sparrow  build  its  nest  and  rear  its  young, 
Inspires  the  loftiest  intellectual  being! 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  435 

Seek  not  to  grasp  this  Power,  nor  learn  its  source, 
Although  it  speaks  through  all  material  forms: 
From  blooming  flower  to  mightiest  flaming  orb, 
From  humblest  insect  up  to  loftiest  Being, — 
'Twill  still  thy  fruitless  search  elude,  until 
'Tis  in  the  bosom  of  the  Infinite  lost. 

As  in  a  ray  of  purest  crystal  light 

All  colors  sleep, — so  the  Infinite  Bosom 

All  things  contains,  and  there  all  things  are  one! — 

World  interblends  with  world,  and  spiral  curve 
And  inter-weaving  circles  mark  the  journey 
Of  progressive  being  in  its  slow  ascent 
From  the  lowest  realms  of  life — up  towards 
The  Oneness  of  the  all-embracing  Infinite — 
The  Eternal  Father  and  Everlasting  Mother! 

All  things  have  spirit-life  that  gives  them  form; 
It  gives  the  crystal  shape,  it  shades  the  marble, 
It  paints  the  flower,  it  moulds  the  dewdrop, 
It  forms  the  rolling  orb  and  flaming  star 
And  paints  the  rose  upon  the  maiden's  cheek! 

Mark  the  ascent  from  dark,  material  caves 
To  realms  of  highest  intellectual  being: 
First,  nought  is  seen  but  blind,  imperious  law, 
As  shown  by  curling  vine  and  icy  crystal; 
Ascending  higher,  is  found  the  moral  sense 
In  love  of  lower  orders  for  their  offspring; 
And  glimpses  faint  of  Reason's  beaming  light 
In  cunning  work  of  insect,  beast,  and  bird; 
But  nought  of  abstract  reasoning  power 
Which  wakes  the  moral  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

Last  in  the  scale,  behold  Immortal  Reason! 
And  that  high  moral  sense,  as  found  in  man; 
Those  attributes  divine,  that  make  him  heir 
To  immortality,  and  lord  sublime 
Of  intellectual  realms! 

With  Moral  Sense, 
And  Reason  for  his  guides,  and  Memory  bright 


436  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

For  his  recording  angel,  he  for  himself 
His  glorious  world  of  being  then  creates! 
Then,  before  him  lies  the  mighty  journey 
Which  leads  towards  the  Unknown  Infinite; 
And  behind,  the  lower  realms  already  passed 
And  now  forgot,  but  to  be  again  recalled 
When  in  the  circle  vast  a  point  is  reached 
Where  the  long  past  and  future  meet  as  one .' 

Recording  Memory  lays  not  her  tablets  by, 
While  Desire  to  an  unknown  future  points! 
When  Hope  no  longer  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
Then  Memory  shuts  her  book,  lays  down  her  pen, 
And,  for  a  season,  seeks  repose  in  sleep; 
But  to  awake!  and  begin  her  task  again, 
And  write  the  record  of  another  day, 
Which  makes  one  cycle  of  life  immortal. 

This  is  thy  mighty  future,  son  of  earth; 
And  this  the  journey  that  before  thee  lies! 

Tremble  not,  nor  dread  the  loss  of  Thought  Divine, 
Nor  the  blotting  out  of  Memory's  record, — 
For  this  vast  journey  is  but  one  passing  day 
Of  being;  which,  as  the  Infinite,  is  eternal. 

But  all  organic  being  must  sometimes  rest, 
And  in  refreshing  slumber  seek  repose: 
A  night  of  rest  succeeds  a  day  of  toil; 
The  summer  leaf  and  flower  in  autumn  fade, 
To  be  renewed  again  in  vernal  spring; 
And  smiling  Hope  ever  of  to-morrow  sings! 

This  is  the  destiny  of  soul,  and  this 

The  mighty  journey  that  before  it  lies; 

The  end  of  which  is  vast  infinitude, 

Where  nought  but  pure,  unchanging  spirit  dwells; 

The  Infinite  Source  from  which  all  being  springs, 

And  to  which  all  things  in  the  end  return, 

As  vapory  clouds  which  from  the  ocean  rise, 

In  drops  of  rain  return  to  it  again. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  437 

But  this  is  not  eternal  sleep  or  death 
To  individual  mind,  more  than  is  sleep 
The  death  of  all  preceding  life  on  earth. 

Moral  being  a  future  has  until  it  reach 

The  point  sublime  where  all  at  last  is  seen — 

The  past  and  future — which  is  but  the  past. 

On  the  Infinite  Bosom  then  it  sleeps 

In  sweet  repose,  forgetful  of  the  past, 

Until  awaked  again  in  embryo  form 

In  some  earthly  nursery  of  Immortal  Being 

To  run  the  cycle  of  another  day. 

This  is  the  destiny  of  soul  immortal, 

And  this  the  moral  being  of  Infinite  Spirit! 

Earth's  lower  forms  by  nature  are  supplied 
With  all  they  need  their  wants  to  satisfy; 
Nor  do  their  simple  natures  long  for  more — 
Their  harmless,  happy  lives  as  shadows  pass, — 
They  live  harmonious  with  Nature's  laws, 
With  no  far-reaching  wish  unsatisfied, 
And  die  at  last  with  nought  of  hope  or  fear. 
But  even  they  in  some  far-distant  future 
May  the  memory  of  their  simple  lives  recall; 
Since  faintest  spark  that  shines  through  lowest  form 
Will  ne'er  be  in  eternal  darkness  quenched! 

Man,  as  an  earthly  being,  is  compound, 
Embracing  all  below  him  in  the  scale — 
His  lower  being  is  common  with  the  brute. 

Next  in  the  scale  is  found  the  moral  sense, 
The  realm  of  Passion:  Hope,  Desire,  and  Love, 
And  all  the  passions  deep  that  ornament 
Or  may  degrade  the  life  of  man  on  earth. 

This  is  the  fruitful  garden  of  the  soul, 

Where  flowers  may  bloom,  or  noxious  weeds  may  grow. 

'Bove  these,  in  state,  bright  Reason  sits  enthroned! 
Lord  Supreme,  and  Ruler  of  the  realm  of  Mind, 
Whose  office  is  to  guide  the  lower  passions. 


IMAGINARY  awKue&fnaMs 

When  in  this  HIM i  bean;  sweet  Concord  reigns. 

*^       j 

"-..  v    •  ...    . 

is  evil  seen,— 


And  let  her  counsels  be  thy 


What  does  the  voice  of  Reason  leach,  and  what 
l,mtn  writ  in  Nature's  glorkxts  book  ? 

who  breaks  a  law  by  Nature  writ. 


T-- '   '-  '    ~  ':  -  ..'    "  "    "        '-  -        .'.*-"' 

•CM*! 


r~ »1_T    If  «ii_i-i_i»  r-,.t_l_t     ,,    T.  rliLjiia    f«i_rl 

---1 -    -      -        -      _-  -     -    ^    -         


.'•*-:        -'."-.'     '-:-     ~'~~    ^  ^    ~~    '     ~ 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  439 

No  being  lower  in  the  scale  than  man 

Can  Nature's  laws  direct;  the  bird,  and  beast, 

And  finny  tribes  to  them  subjective  are; 

Nor  does  the  herb,  or  plant,  or  tree  take  thought 

Of  how  it  shall  be  fed  or  clothed. 

But  when  upon  the  brow  bright  Reason  sits, 
Man  becomes  creative,  and  director  is 
Of  Nature's  laws — 

He  holds  the  forked  lightning 
In  his  grasp;  at  the  howling  storm  he  laughs; 
Adds  sweetness  to  the  sylvan  fruits  of  earth; 
Gives  beauty  to  the  blooming  rose,  and  makes 
The  wilderness  a  paradise  of  love! 
He  makes  the  savage  beast  a  docile  friend; 
He  scans  the  distant  star;  catches  the  winge'd  light; 
Draws  bright  pictures  from  the  realms  of  Beauty, 
And  on  the  bright  historic  page  he  leaves 
A  name  immortal ! 

And  thus,  Reason  makes  man  godlike  in  knowledge, 
With  power  to  act,  as  may  his  will  direct — 
To  stern  Justice,  for  his  acts  accounting. 

Clear  is  Reason's  light,  but  cold  as  moonbeams 

On  the  polar  ice;  no  flowers  of  beauty 

E'er  bloom  beneath  her  piercing  rays,  her  voice 

Ne'er  starts  the  tear  in  Pity's  eye;  nor  does 

Her  cold  hand  e'er  soothe  the  breast  of  Sorrow — 

This,  the  office  of  sweet  Religion  is, 

The  gentlest  spirit  of  ethereal  realms — 

Born  of  the  bosom  of  Eternal  Love! 

Her  voice  is  soft,  and  soothing  is  her  touch, — 

Whether  in  garments  of  superstition  clothed, 

In  classic  robes,  or  in  the  mystic  garb 

Of  dreamy  Indian  priest;  whether  speaking 

Through  the  untutored  savage,  sage,  or  prophet  old, 

Or  through  the  meek  and  gentle  Nazarene! 

Her  voice  is  still  the  same  howe'er  she's  clothed. 


440  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

'T  is  she  who  points  to  brighter  worlds  than  this! 
'T  is  her  bright  glance  that  cheers  the  darkest  gloom, 
And  her  sweet  voice  that  sings  the  songs  of  Hope! 
Her  empire  is  the  realm  of  moral  being — 
The  blooming  garden  of  the  human  soul ! 
When  Reason  bright  and  sweet  Religion  there 
With  mingling  light  illume  the  mind  of  man, 
Then  is  fair  Conscience  born,  to  be  a  guide 
To  man  along  the  misty  vales  of  earth. 

Harmonious  with  himself,  with  Nature's  laws, 
And  with  the  universe, —  he  's  then,  indeed, 
A  lofty  being,  and  fitted  is  to  dwell 
With  beings  of  a  higher  realm  than  earth! 

Thou  now  hast  learned  from  whence  bright  Wisdom 

springs; 

Wouldst  thou  be  happy  in  thy  life  on  earth, 
And  fitted  be  for  higher  realms  of  being? 
Seek  then  the  light  that  beams  from  Reason's  brow, 
And  list  Religion's  gentle  voice  of  love! 
Heed  the  voice  of  Conscience,  by  these  begot, 
And  let  her  counsels  be  thy  moral  guide! 

From  Reason  shalt  thou  learn  imperious  law, 
Which  rules  all  moral  and  material  realms- 
She  '11  teach  thee  to  obey  those  laws  divine, 
As  well  in  small,  as  in  the  greatest  things; 
As  well  in  matters  touching  earthly  life, 
As  things  that  reach  a  higher  state  of  being. 

She  '11  teach  thee  care  of  thy  material  form, 
By  careful  ministry  to  its  needful  wants, 
That  it  may  be  a  dwelling  for  thy  soul 
Until  the  stormy  life  of  earth  has  passed. 

From  her  bright  teachings  shalt  thou  also  learn 
That  sensual  pleasures  no  sweet  memories  leave,— 
That  they  're  forgot,  or  leave  a  sting  behind, — 
While  moral  pictures  brighter  grow  with  time; 
That  oft  the  tears  of  grief  by  sorrow  shed, 
Are  jewels  bright  in  Memory's  casket. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  441 

The  thirst  of  yesterday  is  now  forgot, 

While  the  songs  a  mother  sang  in  childhood 

Are  echoed  still,  though  age  has  dimmed  the  sight — 

One  is  a  thing  but  of  material  birth, 

Which,  passing,  leaves  no  lasting  scar  behind; 

The  other  is  a  flower  of  moral  growth, 

Whose  bloom  defies  the  chilling  frost  of  age! 

Store  then  thy  mind  with  things  that  perish  not, 
But  which  will  stand  the  test  of  all  transitions. 
What  these  shall  be,  let  bright  Reason  teach  thee. 
And  the  instinctive  language  of  thy  soul — 
All  thoughts  and  things  that  to  bright  Truth  pertain, 
All  that  which  in  the  breast  pure  love  inspires 
And  leads  toward  the  Good  and  Beautiful, 
Will  be  the  current  coin  of  higher  realms. 

A  gentle  word  may  make  a  lasting  record, — 
While  proudest  palace  crumbles  into  dust! 
What 's  of  the  earth,  still  on  the  earth  remains, 
As  leaves  the  butterfly  its  shell  behind 
When,  rising  on  its  painted,  flowery  wing 
It  sports  o'er  summer  field  and  meadow  green! 

The  faintest  reasoning  from  effect  to  cause — 
The  love  that  in  the  humblest  bosom  dwells, — 
And  tiniest  things  of  beauty,  are  all  the  same, 
Whether  found  in  the  misty  vales  of  earth, 
Or  in  the  most  supernal  realms  of  being. 

The  love  the  sparrow  feels  is  not  unlike 
That  which  the  bosom  of  an  angel  thrills; 
And  Beauty  sleeps  as  sweetly  on  the  rose's  breast 
As  'mid  the  blooming  flowers  of  Paradise! 

Then,  son  of  earth!  if  thou  wouldst  not  bankrupt  be 

When  passed  are  the  feverish  dreams  of  earth, 

Pledge  not  thy  soul  to  low  and  beastly  passion, 

Nor  a  servant  be  to  wild  Ambition! 

But  cultivate  the  love  of  Truth  and  Beauty, 

And  harmonize  thy  being  here  on  earth 

With  what  awaits  thee  in  a  higher  state. 


U&I7EBSIT7 


.-.'-    -'.-"."  T  ~  T  I    "        *     -    ~  ~.~~  _ 


the  goldes  age  of  m  <m 

And  where  tibc  potsoooos  wcjds  of  vice  now  grow. 

—  aad  vherc  dark  prisons 


Heei  vd  Ihoe  OOHK!S  of  *e  Amcitmt  Ome. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  443 


CONVERSATION   V. 

STUDENT    AND    ANCIENT    ONE. 

STUDENT. 

MYSTERIOUS  spirit  of  the  Ancient  One, 
If  within  the  range  of  thy  far-reaching  mind, 
Explain  to  me  this  marvellous  work  which  I 
Have  with  patient,  earnest  toil  so  long  pursued  ? 

Have  I  been  but  by  wayward  fancy  led, 
Or  of  some  juggling  fiend  the  sport  have  been, 
Who,  by  some  magic  power,  has  me  impelled 
Through  weary  years  this  labor  to  pursue, 
But  to  gratify  a  soul  malignant  ? 

Or,  for  purpose  wise,  has  some  spirit  good 
Me  impelled  to  follow  this  mysterious  work 
As  explanation  of  creative  laws  ? 

This  I  seek  to  learn  from  thy  bright  wisdom. 

ANCIENT  ONE. 

Patient  toiler  in  pursuit  of  knowledge! 

He  who  with  earnest  purpose  seeks  the  truth 

Can  ne'er  be  made  the  sport  of  mocking  spirit, 

Nor  e'er  be  lost  amid  the  clouds  of  darkness; 

For  though  he  wander  long  in  doubt  and  gloom, 

He,  in  the  end,  will  meet  a  just  reward 

For  his  long-suffering  and  enduring  toil. 

Glance  down  the  shadowy  vista  of  the  past, 
E'en  to  the  sunny  days  of  childhood  young, 
And  tell  me  what  thou  find'st  recorded  there  ? 

STUDENT. 

I  read  the  record  of  the  lonely  life 
Of  one  who  in  childhood  a  dreamer  was; 
Who  peopled  shady  dells  with  fairy  forms 
And  saw  them  dance  beneath  the  silver  moon; 


IMA  GINAR  Y    CON  VERSA  TIONS. 

Who  heard  soft  whisperings  in  the  evening  breeze, 
And  wailing  voices  in  the  autumn  winds; 
Who  loved  not  the  rude  voice  of  boisterous  mirth, 
And  shrank  from  the  ribald  speech  of  noisy  crowds, 
But  converse  held  with  plant,  and  tree,  and  flower, 
And  ever  found  companionship  with  Nature! 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

Find  then  in  this  the  key-note  of  thy  being, 
And  learn  how  echoes  from  the  higher  realms 
Are  sometimes  caught  by  those  who  dwell  on  earth. 
Why  sages  old  have  told  of  things  unseen! 
Why  Homer  sang  his  epic  songs,  and  Virgil 
In  bucolic  verse  a  classic  record  left! — 
Who  bade  the  bard  of  Avon  tune  his  lyre; 
The  Doric  reed  to  Scotia's  minstrel  gave, 
And  tuned  the  harp  for  Erin's  son  of  song! — 
Who  taught  the  sculptor's  hand  its  art  divine, 
And  gave  to  Raphael's  brush  its  magic  touch! — 
And  learn  from  this  why  thou  in  childhood's  morn 
Shrank  from  rude  companionship  and  ever  sought 
The  shady  woods,  made  vocal  by  the  songs  of  birds; 
And  loved  the  flowers  of  spring,  the  autumn  leaf, 
The  sighing  breeze  and  howling  wintry  storm; 
And  in  manhood  a  romantic  dreamer  was 
Of  some  unknown  land  of  Love  and  Beauty; 
And  now,  when  hoary  age  has  dimmed  thy  sight, 
Still  by  day,  and  in  the  silent  hours  of  night, 
With  patient  search  and  unremitting  toil, 
For  knowledge  seek'st  in  Nature's  mystic  realms, 
Nor  fear'st  alone  to  tread  her  darkest  paths. 

As  from  the  Samian  sage  already  learned, 

All  forms  material  spring  from  the  realm  of  Cause, 

And  speak  the  language  of  Infinite  Thought; 

In  form,  in  voice,  in  color,  and  in  action, — 

As  forced  to  do  by  their  organic  laws; 

The  rose  of  Beauty  tells;  the  howling  storm, 

The  rolling  thunder,  and  the  earthquake's  voice 

Are  tongues  that  tell  of  Nature's  mighty  power. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  445 

The  song  of  bird,  the  hymn  by  poet  sung, 
The  sounding  lyre  and  harp  of  tuneful  note, — 
The  picture  by  the  hand  of  artist  wrought, 
And  snowy  form  of  sculptured  Beauty,  are  all 
But  the  plain  language  of  Infinite  Cause, — 
Which  all  may  read  whose  souls  are  in  accord 
With  Nature's  ever-sounding  harmonies! 

Whene'er  the  mind  receptive  is  of  thought 
From  the  World  of  Cause,  (the  realm  of  spirit-life), 
It  then  may  glimpses  catch  of  brighter  things 
Than  e'er  are  seen  amid  the  clouds  of  earth — 

ft******** 

Then  can  it  pictures  paint:  in  burning  words, 
In  glowing  colors  from  the  rainbow  caught, 
In  sketches  rude,  by  hand  unskilled  in  art, 
Or  by  sounds  of  strange  and  weird  melody, — 
Which  tell  of  things  that  ne'er  are  seen  by  those 
Who  dwell  alone  upon  the  sensual  plane; 
And  echoes  catch  of  sounding  harmonies, 
Which  ne'er  are  heard  by  their  insensate  ears. 

And  this  is  inspiration!  which  is  but 
To  have  the  mental  chords  so  strung  that  they 
Will  vibrate  to  the  waves  of  Thought  Divine, 
Which  ever  roll  from  being's  highest  realms, 
And  wake  the  souls  of  those  who  've  ears  to  hear! 

One  thus  awaked  is  oft  a  dreamer  called, 
Because  he  sometimes  soars  above  the  clouds 
And  mists  of  earth,  and  in  a  language  speaks 
By  the  low,  sordid  mind  not  understood. 

But  the  airy  pictures  by  the  dreamer  wrought 
While  catching  glimpses  of  the  higher  realms, 
Will  still  be  bright  when  flowers  shall  cease  to  bloom 
And  solar  beams  no  longer  light  the  sky! 

Therefore,  go  on!   and  still  this  work  pursue, 
And  if  it  give  thee  pleasure,  then  art  thou  paid — 
And  'tis  not  labor  lost,  though  others  may 
Upon  it  look  but  as  a  dream  of  Fancy. 


446  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

The  whispering  breeze  that  wakes  the  yEolian  chord 

By  the  insensate  rock  is  heeded  not; 

The  pastoral  beauties  of  the  flowery  mead, 

Which  ever  fill  the  Artist's  mind  with  rapture, 

Wake  no  emotions  in  the  beastly  ox 

As  he  the  herbage  crops  to  stay  his  hunger. 

And  thus  the  echoes  from  the  World  of  Cause, 

Which  sometimes  fall  upon  the  listening  ear 

Of  one  whose  mind  accords  with  Nature's  laws, 

By  the  dull,  sordid  soul  are  never  heard. 

Since  all  being  springs  from  one  Infinite  Cause, 
All  in  kinship  together  interwoven  is — 
From  most  insensate  form  to  highest  type; 
From  smallest  atom  to  the  mightiest  orb; 
All  speaking  words  from  one  Infinite  Book — 
Some  in  ^Eolian  strains  of  softest  music, 
Some  in  tempest  wild  and  rolling  thunder, 
Some  in  epic  hymn  to  dying  hero  sung, 
And  some  in  sighing  notes  that  tell  of  sorrow, — 
Being  all  harmonious  and  accordant  sounds 
From  Nature's  boundless  realms  of  Cause. 

Behold  the  circle  of  material  being, — 
Embracing  all  forms  of  life  organic 
Through  which  is  manifest  Infinite  Thought; 
The  higher  from  the  lower  form  evolved, — 
As  graceful  stem  springs  from  ungainly  root, 
And  as  from  leaf  and  bud  the  flower  is  born; 
Each  filling  its  allotted  place  in  being's  chain, 
And  all  combining  in  harmonious  order 
To  form  the  Oneness  of  the  Universe! 

Behold  the  monstrous  forms  of  life  organic 
That  swam  the  ancient  turbid  seas  of  earth 
Ere  tree  and  plant  were  born,  or  flower  bloomed; 
Ere  beast  had  roamed  the  shady  grove,  or  bird 
Had  sung  its  song  of  love! 

Through  these  monstrous  forms  the  Infinite  Mother 
First  gave  a  birth  to  sensuous  life  on  earth 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  447 

Long  ages  ere  it  cradled  infant  man; 

For  beings  of  grossest  form  at  first  were  born, 

Such  as  alone  could  life  sustain  amid 

The  poisonous  waters  of  the  thermal  seas, 

In  which  the  first  organic  life  appeared; 

These  monsters  disappeared,  and  succeeded  were 

By  beings  of  a  higher  type  of  form; 

Of  whose  forthcoming  they  foretold. 

Already  art  thou  taught  that  Nature  works 
By  dual  laws  in  all  creative  acts; 
From  lowest  form  to  that  of  highest  type, 
And  that  creation  is  but  change  of  form. 

These  duals  in  pictured  language  symbolled  are; 
One  by  the  brain,  the  seat  of  Thought  and  Will; 
One  by  the  heart,  where  yearning  passion  dwells — 
Male  and  female,  through  all  the  realms  of  Nature, 
And  so  ordained  by  universal  law. 

In  Nature's  all-engendering  womb,  these  duals 
Give  shape  to  all  the  myriad  forms  of  matter 
Through  which  is  manifest  mysterious  life; 
Each  from  the  Infinite  Source  receiving 
So  much  of  spirit  as  its  form  requires. 

Behold  with  reverence  the  mysteries  of  Creation! 
Nor  dare  with  beastly  thought  or  lewd  desire 
Profane  the  secrets  of  her  holy  temple. 
And  learn  that  nought  in  Nature's  sight  is  base 
Which  has  been  formed  by  her  creative  laws, 
And  nought  is  sin  save  what  these  laws  forbid. 

Through  all  forms  of  matter  speaks  infinite  spirit! 
By  force  attractive,  or  by  stern  repulsion; 
And  these  the  language  make  of  Love  and  Hate — 
To  this  stern  law  there  no  exception  is. 

All  change  and  motion  in  material  realms 
Are  governed  by  these  stern,  imperious  laws; 
They  hold  the  planet  in  its  circling  path, 
They  send  the  comet  on  elliptic  curve 


448  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

To  the  far  region  of  its  aphelion, 
And  to  its  perihelion  call  it  back 
To  light  again  its  torch  in  solar  beams! 

They  bid  the  starry  systems  cycles  mark, 
And  aeons  count  on  the  eternal  dial! 

They  wake  the  breeze  that  shakes  the  summer  leaf, 
And  wing  the  storm  that  rends  the  gnarled  oak! 

They  paint  the  rose  and  shape  the  lily's  form; 
They  give  the  brow  of  morn  its  roseate  hue, 
And  gild  the  sunset  clouds! 

As  in  material,  so  in  moral  realms, 
They  voice  the  Infinite  Soul  of  Nature — 

They  wake  the  chord  that  thrills  the  material  heart 
In  bird  and  beast,  and  in  the  human  breast; 
They  paint  the  blush  upon  the  maiden's  cheek 
Responsive  to  the  yearning  voice  of  love, 
When  two  harmonious  souls  in  wedlock  meet. 

And  these  are  Nature's  laws  of  marriage:  as  seen 
In  sleeping  mineral,  in  plant,  in  blooming  flower, 
In  bird,  in  beast,  and  in  highest  type  of  being; 
And  in  all  they  are  but  the  voice  of  God — 
For  God  is  the  Spirit  of  Infinite  Love  ! 

When  man  shall  learn  to  read  these  laws  divine, 
As  writ  in  Nature's  Everlasting  Book, — 
And  shall  obey  what  by  these  laws  are  taught, — 
Then  shall  harsh  discord  disappear  from  earth, 
And,  in  its  stead,  be  heard  sweet  songs  of  love! 
Aye,  when  man  shall  learn  to  list  to  Reason's  voice 
And  live  in  strict  accord  with  Nature's  laws, — 
To  worship  at  the  shrine  where  Love  and  Beauty 
Are  clothed  in  Wisdom's  purest  robes  of  light, — 
Then  shall  Ambition  lose  his  thirst  for  power; 
The  tyrant's  arm  hang  nerveless  by  his  side; 
Cold  Avarice  then  relax  his  iron  grasp; 
Dark  Superstition  disappear  from  earth, 
And  brutal  Passion  hide  its  hideous  head. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  449 

Then  shall  the  rosy  bridal-couch  be  pure 
As  is  an  angel's  dream,  and  no  foul  stain 
Shall  then  defile  the  sacred  robes  of  Venus 
While  ministering  at  the  Altar  of  Creation! 

Then  may  be  born  on  earth  bright  things  of  beauty 
Uncurst  by  seeds  of  foul  parental  taint, 
Which  now  with  sad  abortions  people  earth, 
Doomed  by  the  record  of  ancestral  wrong 
And  forced  to  take  a  heritage  of  woe. 

Sad  outcasts  of  earth!    Poor  diseased  ones! 
No  prison  bars  nor  dungeons  dark  can  cure 
The  bitter  curse  which  they  are  doomed  to  bear, 
Nor  aught  avail  the  savage  penal  code 
Which  to  the  hangman  gives  his  brutal  office, 
To  slay  this  ghastly  hydra  of  deformity, 
And  dry  the  poisonous  springs  that  give  it  life. 

First  cleanse  the  fount,— then  pure  will  be  the  stream! 

Instead  of  cloistered  cells  and  gloomy  aisles 

In  which  are  heard  the  solemn  sound  of  dirge, 

And  where  are  taught  dogmatic  rules  of  faith 

And  the  law  of  punishment  vindictive, — 

Rear  temples  to  the  Good  and  Beautiful, 

Whose  altars  shall  be  wrought  by  sculptor's  art 

From  Parian  marble  in  chastest  forms  of  Beauty! 

Whose  walls  shall  be  adorned  with  pictures  bright 

Of  scenes  of  love,  such  as  may  angels  feel ! 

Let  breath  of  flowers  the  only  incense  be 

That 's  ever  offered  at  the  shrine  of  Love; 

And  cheerful  thoughts  the  prayers  that  there  are  said — 

Instead  of  mournful  hymns,  be  heard  the  sound 

Of  sweetest  music,  mingling  with  the  voice 

Of  laughing  waters  and  the  songs  of  birds — 

And  to  these  temples  call  the  sons  of  earth, 

And  teach  them  there  to  love  the  Beautiful! 

Then  let  man  be  taught  to  read  the  open  book 
So  clearly  writ  by  Nature's  cunning  hand; 
And  list  the  teachings  of  her  laws  divine — 


450  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

As  seen  in  tree  and  plant,  in  leaf  and  flower, 

In  insect,  bird,  and  beast,  and  upright  man, 

In  falling  snowflake  and  in  rolling  orb, 

In  frowning  brow  and  face  that  beams  with  love! 

As  heard  in  sighing  bree/e  and  howling  storm, 

In  voice  of  discord  and  in  song  of  love! 

Then  shall  he  learn  that  seeming  things  of  earth, 

Are  but  fleeting  shadows  from  the  World  of  Cause,  - 

That  man's  life  on  earth  is  but  a  passing  dream, — 

But  one  short  day  of  fitful  light  and  shade, 

In  which  Grief  treads  upon  the  heels  of  Joy, 

And  Suffering  follows  in  the  path  of  Pleasure 

In  the  journey  of  progressive  being 

Towards  the  ethereal  realms  where  Concord  reigns. 

Then  shall  he  learn  the  nature  of  his  being; 
That  he  embraces  what  beneath  him  is — 
While  the  empire  of  his  far-reaching  mind 
Is  boundless  as  the  reach  of  Thought  Divine! 

His  earthly  being  owns  what  it  requires, 

While  'tis  a  dwelling  for  the  soul  immortal 

On  its  transient  journey  through  the  vales  of  earth; 

While  to  his  mind  belong  all  things  on  earth, 

And  in  the  higher  realms,  within  its  reach! 

The  distant  star,  whose  light  a  thousand  years 

Has  on  its  journey  been  to  earth,  belongs 

To  him  whose  searching  mind  can  comprehc-ml 

The  laws  sublime  that  regulate  its  being — 

The  atom,  which  with  microscopic  power 

He  brings  within  his  searching  vision's  range, 

And  bids  it  tell  the  history  of  its  being, 

Belongs  to  his  far-reaching  mind. 

Thus,  man  is  greater  than  the  mightiest  orb 
That  rolls  in  splendor  through  the  realms  of  space! 
Aye,  than  all  the  countless  forms  of  matter 
Through  which  is  manifest  Infinite  Thought  — 
For  suns  shall  cease  to  glow,  and  rolling  orbs 
Shall  perish  and  to  other  forms  of  being  change, 
As  melts  the  snowflake  in  the  morning  sun 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  451 

And  fades  the  leaf  before  the  autumn's  breath, — 
But  mind  unchanging  and  eternal  is, 
As  is  the  Spirit  of  Infinite  Cause. 

Go  seat  thyself  beneath  a  garden  tree, 
While  the  blooming  rose  is  bathed  in  morning  dew, 
And  the  air  is  vocal  with  the  songs  of  birds 
And  the  humming  sound  of  summer  insects; 

Behold  the  budding  flower  and  fading  leaf 
Side  by  side  upon  the  self-same  parent  stem, — 
The  tender  plant  beside  the  withered  stalk, — 
And  learn  from  these  the  lesson  of  creation, 
Of  birth  and  growth,  and  of  decay  and  death, 
(Which  nothing  is  but  constant  change  of  form); 
Yet  these  fragile  things,  whose  forms  are  fleeting 
As  figments  of  a  passing  midnight  dream, 
Have  each  a  spirit  which  gives  it  form  and  color; 
The  form  is  transient,  but  the  spirit  lives! 

Behold  the  glories  of  the  midnight  sky! 

The  rolling  planets  in  their  mighty  rounds! 

And  beaming  stars  that  gem  the  brow  of  night! 

These,  to  the  eye,  eternal  and  unchanging  seem, 

And  tradition  and  historic  records  tell 

That  as  now  they  shine  they  shone  in  ancient  days, 

And  seasons  marked  and  time  for  sons  of  earth; 

Yet  these,  like  flowers  upon  a  blooming  tree, 

Are  born  to  fade,  and  die,  and  pass  away. 

The  summer  leaf  and  flower  in  autumn  fade, 

But  still  the  tree  remains,  and  blooms  again! 

Yet,  in  time,  the  parent  tree  will  perish,  too, — 

When  from  its  dust  one  of  like  form  will  spring. 

Thus  forms,  like  passing  shadows,  come  and  go 

In  the  vast  circle  of  material  being; 

Each  expressing  the  Infinite  Spirit 

In  language  suited  to  its  form  specific. 

Then,  son  of  earth!  be  patient  on  thy  journey 

Of  one  day  through  the  mortal  vales  of  earth; 

For  this  is  needful  to  a  higher  life — 

Weep  not  o'er  the  blight  of  cherished  earthly  hopes, 


452  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

Nor  heed  the  warring  strife  of  adverse  winds; 

Kuint  not  beneath  Affliction's  heavy  load, 

Nor  shed  regretful  tears  o'er  what  is  passed; 

But  ever  look  towards  the  glorious  future 

Where  all  at  last  shall  find  a  just  reward 

When  passed  are  the  chilling  storms  of  earthly  life. 

San  Francisco,  1889. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  453 


CONVERSATION  VI. 

STUDENT    AND     ANCIENT    ONE. 
STUDENT. 

Now  tell  me,  ancient  sage,  if  this  thou  canst: 

How,  when,  and  where  did  man  his  first  appearance 

Make  on  the  earth  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

All  changes  in  material  forms  on  earth, 
Of  birth,  of  growth,  and  of  decay  and  death, 
Are  but  result  of  all-pervading  life, 
Which  being  gives,  and  form,  to  all  that  is; 
From  lowest  cell  in  Nature's  darkest  womb 
To  form  ethereal  of  sublimest  realms! 
But  whence  this  forceful,  active  life,  not  thou 
Canst  comprehend,  nor  even  I  explain, 
More  than  to  the  Infinite  I  a  bound  can  fix. 

As  thou,  in  former  lessons,  hast  been  taught, 
Man  from  creative  law  is  not  exempt; 
He  to  his  present  stately  form  came  up 
Through  myriad  lower  orders  of  creation; 
But  though  he  highest  stands  in  being's  scale, 
Of  all  the  countless  creatures  born  of  earth, 
He  's  still  but  in  the  early  dawn  of  life; 
And  he,  with  all  his  godlike  powers  of  mind, 
Is  not  so  perfect  as  his  humbler  kin. 

He  's  not  so  fleet  as  is  the  winged  bird, 
Nor  in  form  so  graceful  as  the  bounding  steed; 
The  mantling  blush  upon  the  maiden's  cheek 
Is  dull  beside  the  bloom  that  paints  the  rose; 
Yet  man,  although  the  youngest  child  of  earth, 
Has  ascent  made  from  his  ancestral  tree 
Through  aeons,  of  which  no  record  has  been  left 
By  the  recording  pen  of  Memory! 


454  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

With  unfolding  process  Nature  ever  works 
In  the  construction  of  material  forms, — 
From  sleeping  monad  in  the  crystal  chained 
To  loftiest  being  of  angelic  form, 
To  voice  the  soul  of  sound  and  pictures  paint 
Of  Love  and  Beauty. 

From  crystal  of  prismatic  shape  is  born 
The  glowing  colors  in  the  rainbow  seen; 
But  cold  and  lifeless  seems  its  icy  form, 
Nor  needs  it  light  and  air  for  its  support. 

The  plant  organic  has  its  circling  veins, 
By  vital  currents  coursed,  which  give  it  life, 
And  dies  whene'er  their  annual  flow  is  stopped; 
It  drinks  the  dew  and  breathes  the  summer  air, 
It  greets  the  rising  sun  with  opening  flowers, 
And  with  fragrant  breath  perfumes  the  dewy  morn, 
But  droops  and  dies,  when  in  the  darkness  chained; 
And  in  it  faintly  dawns  the  moral  sense — 
Since  on  the  summer  breeze  with  downy  wings 
It  seeks  its  dual  mate  in  love's  embrace. 

Already,  from  former  teachings,  hast  thou  learned 
That  earth's  primeval  oceans  teemed  with  life; 
That  hideous  monsters  swam  the  ancient  seas, 
And  slimy  reptiles  crawled  the  dismal  swamps 
Long  ere  the  browsing  herd  the  meadow  roamed, 
Or  bird  had  waked  the  dewy  morn  with  song! 

Man  into  conscious  being  came  on  eartli 

Like  plant  and  tree,  and  insect,  beast,  and  bird, 

And  all  things  else  that  have  organic  life; 

By  that  unchanging  and  inherent  law 

That  shapes  the  dewdrop  and  rounds  the  rolling  orb; 

That  makes  each  atom  seek  its  appointed  place, 

And  bids  revolving  systems  periods  mark — 

By  the  same  law  that  makes  the  stagnant  pool 

Bring  forth  the  tiny  sleep-disturbing  insect, 

Whose  life  is  measured  by  a  summer's  day! 

I  le  from  the  earth  was  born,  as  was  the  plant; 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS,  455 

But  who  can  count  the  circling  ages  o'er 
That  then  were  numbered  in  the  age  of  earth, 
When  this  prophetic  sign  of  upright  man 
Sprang  from  the  ever-teeming  womb  of  earth  ? 
And  who  can  tell  what  untold  aeons  passed 
Ere  this  primeval  sign  of  lordly  man 
Had  such  advancement  made  in  being's  scale 
That  it  could  reason  from  effect  to  cause? 

Now  look  abroad  upon  this  rolling  orb! 

From  ice-bound  regions,  where,  'mid  Arctic  snows, 

Stern  Winter  holds  his  court, — to  southern  climes, 

Where  tropic  breezes  fan  the  heated  earth, — 

And  mark  the  myriad  forms  of  life  organic 

That  spring  from  Nature's  all-engendering  womb! 

Each  fitted  for  the  place  that  gave  it  birth, 

And  languish  would,  and  die,  if  thence  removed. 

The  plant  that  springs  amid  the  Arctic  snows 

Would  wither  'neath  the  burning  southern  sun; 

The  floral  grandeur  of  the  tropic  woods 

Is  ne'er  beheld  upon  the  Arctic  plains, 

Nor  roams  the  lion  where  dwells  the  polar  bear. 

The  dusky  native  of  the  tropic  jungle 
Dreads  not  the  tainted  air  and  deadly  dew 
That  slays  the  fair-browed  son  of  northern  climes, 
Because  it  is  the  place  that  gave  him  birth. 

STUDENT. 

Then,  'tis  not  true, — as  long  it  has  been  taught, — 
That  all  mankind,  wherever  found  on  earth, 
However  high  or  low  in  being's  scale, 
Sprang  from  one  pair •,  by  special  act  created  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

No;  as  well  suppose  that  the  Iceland  moss 

And  the  southern  palm  from  the  same  parents  sprang; 

Or  that  the  savage  wolf  and  gentle  lamb 

Once  in  loving  friendship  the  forest  roamed, — 

As  that  the  brutal  savage  of  the  isles, 


456  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

Who  makes  foul  feast  on  festering  human  flesh, 
And  the  fair-browed  son  of  Caucasian  blood 
Are  offsprings  of  one  lone-created  pair. 

And  thus  far  have  we  traced  the  race  of  man 
From  his  conception  in  the  womb  of  earth, 
Until  a  lord  creative  he  became, 
With  power  to  catch  the  winged  beam  of  light 
And  bid  it  tell  of  the  far-off  shining  star — 
From  whence  it  came! 

STUDENT. 

Can  measured  be,  by  years  of  solar  time, 
The  period  long  in  this  transition  spent  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

Nature  marks  not  time  by  revolving  orb, 
Nor  planet  circling  round  its  central  sun. 

Who  can  count  the  aeons  long  that  Nature  took 

To  place  the  earth  in  a  condition  fit 

To  life  sustain  of  lowest  form  organic, 

As  in  her  humblest  floral  offspring  seen  ? 

And  who  can  tell  how  many  ages  passed, 

Ere  the  Earth  gave  birth  to  more  complex  growths, 

Which  prophesied  of  higher  forms  to  come  ? 

Or  tell  what  circling  aeons  further  ran, 

Ere  from  Nature's  self-engendering  womb 

Was  born  the  plant  of  highest  type  organic, 

Which  shadowed  forth  the  upright  form  of  man  ? 

Man  works  with  eager  and  impatient  haste, 
By  grasping  greed  or  by  ambition  urged, 
That  he  may  reach  the  end  for  which  he  toils, 
Within  the  circle  of  his  earthly  life— 
But  Nature  works  not  thus  in  peopling  worlds: 
With  her  a  thousand  ages  are  no  more 
Than  fleeting  moments  of  a  passing  day; 
And  atom  wandering  on  the  evening  breeze 
Imports  as  much  as  does  the  rolling  orb 
That  lights  the  brow  of  night! 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  457 

STUDENT. 

Are  any  limits  fixed  to  human  progress  ? 
Does  man  advance  so  far,  and  not  beyond  ? 
Is  his  advancement  like  an  ocean  wave, 
Which  onward  rolls  till  into  spray  't  is  dashed 
Upon  the  shores  of  dark  forgetfulness  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

On  the  material  plane  where  Mammon  reigns, — 

Where  Hermes  rules, — where  rosy  Bacchus  dwells, 

And  revel  keeps  beneath  the  clustering  vine, 

And  smiling  Venus  holds  her  Cyprian  court, — 

A  limit  is  to  progress;  on  such  plane 

The  miser's  hoarded  gold  him  profits  not, 

Nor  wealth  by  commerce  won  contentment  brings. 

The  daintiest  food  in  time  will  bring  disgust, 
And  sensual  pleasures  are  with  poisons  mixed; 
But  in  the  realm  sublime  where  Wisdom  dwells 
No  limit  can  be  fixed  to  mind  progressive. 

The  monumental  pile  will  turn  to  dust, 
The  proudest  name  in  time  will  be  forgot; 
But  Thought  sublime,  like  Truth,  eternal  is, 
And  onward  is  its  flight  towards  the  Infinite. 

STUDENT. 

Then,  't  were  wise  in  man  to  seek  the  better  way 
That  ends  not  on  the  shores  of  hopeless  gloom, 
But  upwards  leads  to  realms  where  Beauty  dwells, 
Unsullied  by  the  stains  of  sensual  life! 

But  tell  me,  Ancient  One,  if  in  thy  power — 
Since  Nature's  laws  with  all  perfection  work, 
Nor  useless  wheel  nor  broken  link  is  found 
In  all  her  works  so  vast  and  complicate, — 
Whence  come  the  ills,  the  suffering,  sin,  and  crime 
That  darken  and  deform  all  earthly  life  ? 
Is  source  of  Good  the  source  of  Evil,  too  ? 
Do  these  two  streams  from  the  same  fountain  flow? 
If  so,  how  can  the  fountain  then  be  pure  ? 


458  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

The  first  faint  streaks  that  light  the  brow  of  morn 
When  rosy  twilight  wakes  the  sleeping  earth, 
Spring  from  the  same  effulgent  source  of  light 
That  gives  its  brightness  to  the  noonday  hour; 
And  thus  the  faintest  signs  of  sensuous  life 
Which  animate  the  lowest  form  of  being 
Spring  from  the  same  all -giving  Source  of  Life 
From  which  the  loftiest  mind  receives  its  light! 

Though  on  his  brow  the  light  of  reason  beams, 

Man  in  his  structure  shows  the  lower  links 

In  being's  chain  progressive  through  which  he  's  passed 

To  reach  the  point  where  he  at  present  stands; 

He,  on  the  earthly  plane,  a  compound  is 

Of  spirit  bright  and  grovelling  passions  low; 

He  gifted  is  with  godlike  powers  of  mind  — 

On  wings  of  thought  he  soars  to  heights  sublime, 

And  pictures  draws  of  scenes  of  fairest  beauty! 

And  deep  descends  to  Nature's  darkest  caves, 

And  learns  the  secrets  of  her  hidden  realms! 

Yet  subject  is  to  all  material  laws 

By  which  earth's  humbler  children  are  controlled— 

A  slave  he  is  to  hunger  and  to  thirst, 

And  to  the  impulse  strong  which  Nature  gives 

To  all  her  children  to  create  their  kind. 

The  brute  no  Mentor  has,  save  Nature's  laws, 

To  curb,  direct,  and  guide  its  craving  passions; 

And  hence  it  ne'er  o'ersteps  their  wholesome  bounds. 

It  has  no  cunning  hand  with  which  to  toil, — 

Hence  cannot  till  the  soil,  nor  weapons  form 

To  slay  its  fellow  and  destroy  its  kind; 

Nor  aught  create  to  minister  to  pleasure, — 

Nor  aught  obtain  to  satisfy  its  wants 

Beyond  what  Nature  has  for  it  prepared; 

It  therefore  can  commit  no  moral  wrong — 

It  is,  in  Nature's  household,  still  a  child! 

But  thinking  man  has  reached  a  point  above 

The  nursery  plane  where  dwells  the  humble  brute, 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  459 

Nor  subject  is  to  Nature's  leading-strings, 
But  to  his  reason  is  accountable! 
And  if  he  heed  not  what  her  precepts  teach, 
He  needs  upon  himself  must  suffering  bring. 

All  things  of  beauty  which  from  Nature  spring, 
And  all  conceptions  in  the  World  of  Art 
Which  color  give  and  form  to  pictures  bright 
Are  but  the  offspring  of  harmonious  laws! 
And  forces  in  harmonious  concert  form 
The  graceful  curves  that  lines  of  beauty  trace: 
In  stem  and  branch  of  tree,  in  twining  vine, 
In  leaf  and  flower,  symmetric  form  of  fruit, 
In  swelling  ocean  wave,  in  curling  mist, 
In  drooping  willow,  and  in  waving  corn — 
In  form  of  insect,  bird,  and  beast, — and  lines 
Of  beauty  in  the  human  face  divine! 
And  colors,  too,  combine  in  harmony, 
And  pictures  form  of  gentle  love  and  beauty, 
Which  fill  the  mind  with  rapture  and  delight 
And  make  their  creators'  names  immortal. 

Nature's  warring  forces,  as  shown  in  whirlwind, 
In  earthquake,  lightning,  storm,  and  tempest  wild, 
Are  but  her  efforts  made  to  find  repose. 
These  warring  forces  needs  discordant  are; 
Hence,  uncouth  pictures  form  in  angles  sharp, 
Which  fill  the  mind  untutored  with  dismay. 

As  dual  forces,  when  they  balanced  are, 
Give  birth  to  graceful  forms  and  pictures  bright, 
So,  when  harmonious  on  the  moral  plane, 
Their  offspring  ever  will  be  things  of  beauty, 
With  no  harsh  lines  to  mar  their  harmony 
And  give  them  features  of  discordant  evil. 

Soft  is  the  music  where  sweet  Concord  reigns 
'Mid  flowers  that  bloom  beneath  the  smiles  of  Love! 
And  where'er  this  condition  may  be  found, 
There  too  is  found  the  dwelling-place  of  Good; 
But  where  harsh  Discord  dwells,  there  Evil  reigns ; 


460  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

And  serpents  hiss  among  the  poisonous  weeds 
Where  lurks  the  monster  of  malignant  Hate. 

As  sweet  Concord  but  a  condition  is, 

So  is  opposing  Discord  but  a  state; 

Nor  can  the  one  be  called  unchanging  Good, 

Nor  the  other  the  spirit  dark  of  changeless  Evil. 

What  varied  strains  of  melody  are  born 
From  the  few  primal  notes  in  music  known! 
Some  that  tell  of  scenes  of  pastoral  beauty; 
Of  golden  sunbeams,  and  of  flowery  fields; 
Some  that  tell  of  lightning,  storm,  and  earthquake- 
Some  that  tell  of  warring  strife,  and  battle  fierce- 
Some  that  sing  of  love;  some  that  tell  of  hate, 
Of  joy,  of  grief,  of  hope,  of  dark  despair — 
Yet  all  these  varied  pictures  are  produced 
By  ringing  changes  on  these  primal  notes. 
And,  from  the  colors  in  the  rainbow  seen, 
What  countless  pictures  are  by  the  artist  wrought 
Of  harmonious  Beauty  or  of  warring  Strife! 

STUDENT. 

If  Harmony  be  Good,  and  it  is  born 
From  strict  observance  of  harmonious  laws, 
By  which  is  ruled  the  universe  of  being, — 
And  Evil  springs  from  disregard  of  law,— 
And  man  a  free  agent  is,  with  Reason 
For  a  guide  in  pursuit  of  his  well-being, — 
Then  his  own  judgment  should  him  teach  to  live 
In  strict  accord  with  Nature's  ruling  law! 

ANCIENT  ONE. 

If  man  had  reached  perfection  in  his  being, 

Like  those  who  've  passed  to  highest  realms  of  life, 

Then  would  his  nature  be  in  strict  accord 

With  highest  law  of  perfect  harmony; 

He  then  would  need  no  guide  to  keep  him  right, 

Since  to  himself  he  then  a  law  would  be. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  461 

At  midnight  all  things  are  in  darkness  hid; 
Nor  form,  nor  color  bright  distinguished  is — 
In  morning  twilight  these  are  dimly  seen, 
And  at  the  noonday  hour  the  meadow  green, 
The  field  and  forest  and  the  sunny  glade 
Are  clothed  in  floral  robes  of  light  and  beauty! 

The  mineral  still  in  midnight  darkness  sleeps — 

The  lower  orders  of  organic  life 

Are  still  in  the  early  morning  twilight; 

While  on  the  head  of  man  the  risen  sun 

Sheds  some  slant  beams  of  intellectual  light, 

Yet  far  below  the  noonday  of  his  being, 

He  flounders  still  in  bogs  of  sensual  passion. 

No  task  on  earth  has  man  so  difficult 
As  rightly  to  adjust  a  balance  fair 
Between  the  compounds  of  his  dual  nature: 
One  drags  him  down  to  beastly  appetite, 
The  other  bids  him  look  to  higher  realms! 
Yet  both  are  needful  on  the  earthly  plane; 
But  both  should  subject  be  to  reason. 

If  man  live  on  the  sensual  plain  alone, 

Then  is  he  still  within  the  brutal  realm; 

But  if  he  crush  all  passion  in  his  soul, 

Unfit  he  is  to  dwell  upon  the  earth — 

Since,  while  he  dwells  upon  the  earthly  plane, 

Must  be  regarded  his  material  needs; 

And  when  the  balance  fair  is  well  preserved 

Between  his  earthly  wants  and  higher  thoughts, 

Then  with  Nature's  laws  is  life  harmonious. 

STUDENT. 

/iW/then  is  not,  as  in  creed  'tis  taught, 

An  independent  power  at  war  with  Good  ; 

But  a  condition  of  diseased  passion, 

Which  from  intemperate  use  and  ignorance  springs  ? 


462  l.VAC/XARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

What  would  man  be  without  his  hopes,  his  fears, 

His  longing  aspirations  and  desires; 

His  loves,  his  hates,  and  all  the  attributes 

That  dignify  him  as  a  moral  being? 

Yet  all  these,  when  by  reason  unrestrained, 

Become  degrading  vices;  just  as  fire, 

When  uncontrolled,  becomes  a  fell  destroyer! 

No  thrilling  passion  of  the  human  soul, 
By  Nature's  law,  but  needful  is  to  man 
Upon  his  journey  through  the  vales  of  earth. 

STUDENT. 

If  dual  forces  are  creative  agents, 

And  are  result  of  harmonious  laws, 

Why  are  their  offspring  often  found  imperfect  ? 

Why  are  abortions  often  found  on  earth, 

And  chiefly  in  the  human  race  ? 

ANCIENT  ONE. 

Look  to  the  realms  of  inorganic  being! 
Behold  the  crystal  in  the  caves  of  earth, 
And  snowflake  falling  from  the  wintry  cloud! 
With  these  creative  laws  have  not  been  checked, — 
Hence,  in  symmetric  form,  they  perfect  are; 
And  in  leaf  and  flower,  insect,  bird,  and  beast 
But  rarely  are  abortions  found  in  form, 
Since  Nature's  laws  creative  they  obey. 

Ascending  in  the  scale  to  reasoning  man, 

We  find  abortive  and  distorted  forms — 

And  rarely  do  we  see  symmetric  beauty, 

And  never  such  a  human  face  divine 

As  Raphael  to  his  creations  gave 

Of  his  conception  of  an  angel's  face, 

By  inspiration's  beaming  light  received 

From  realms  where  Beauty's  form  is  never  marred 

By  violation  of  harmonious  laws. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  463 

Hadst  thou  a  vision  of  sufficient  power, 
Then  couldst  thou  clearly  see  the  aural  sphere 
Pertaining  to  each  organic  being, 
And  which  from  its  inherent  nature  springs, 
As  from  the  flower  is  its  aroma  born. 

When  on  earth  two  aurals  in  contact  come, 

If  they  accord,  no  jarring  shock  is  felt, 

Since  they  assimilate  in  harmony; 

The  circling  currents  meeting  no  obstruction, 

A  strong  attractive  impulse  then  is  felt 

Between  the  dwellers  of  such  aural  spheres; 

And  this  \<s>  friendship  pure  ;  and,  too,  'tis  love! 

But  if  these  aural  spheres  discordant  are, 

Then,  when  they  meet,  there  will  be  jarring  strife; 

Since  by  attractive  and  repulsive  laws 

Does  Nature  work  in  all  material  worlds 

In  acts  creative  and  destructive. 

On  these  strict  laws  are  based  the  loves  and  hates 
Of  all  the  sensuous  beings  found  on  earth; 
And  in  the  lower  kingdoms,  too,  they  rule 
Where  forms  by  chemic  laws  are  made,  and  where 
By  the  same  laws  they  are  destroyed. 

But  of  all  attractions  and  repulsions, 
The  strongest  far  are  those  of  sexual  duals — 
Where  these  harmonious  are  is  Paradise; 
But  where  discordant,  there  is  found  a  hell! 
And  disregard  of  this  essential  law 
Productive  is  of  countless  ills  on  earth 
Among  her  offspring  of  the  highest  form. 

The  plant  ne'er  violates  this  dual  law, 

Nor  humble  brute  o'ersteps  the  bounds  prescribed; 

But  man,  with  Reason's  light  upon  his  brow, 

With  madness  disregards  the  sacred  laws 

By  which  material  forms  created  are; 

And,  led  by  avarice,  lust,  or  base  desire, 

He  ventures  oft  to  tread  forbidden  ground, 


464  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

And  thus  upon  himself  misfortune  brings 
And  to  his  offspring  leaves  a  life  of  woe. 

STUDENT. 

Does  then  the  parent  to  the  child  transmit 
The  mental  features  which  it  may  possess  ? 
If  so,  does  not  this  then  the  spirit  make 
The  offspring  of  the  parents,  and  their  creation  ? 

ANCIENT  ONE. 

Each  earthly  form,  by  Nature's  laws  produced, 
A  spirit  will  attract  to  suit  such  form; 
This  is  by  Nature's  changeless  law  decreed. 
'Tis  this  that  gives  the  rose  its  fragrant  breath, 
The  nightingale  and  lark  their  notes  of  song, 
The  fox  its  cunning — to  the  lion  courage, 
And  to  the  serpent  its  desire  to  sting. 
No  form,  however  high  or  low  it  be, 
But  has  a  spirit  to  its  being  suited. 

STUDENT. 

If  this  be  so,  how  then  correct  the  evil 
Which  springs  from  operation  of  these  laws  ? 
And  who  to  Justice  must  account  therefor, 
Since  nothing  high  or  low  itself  creates, 
But  into  being  comes  by  laws  organic  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

The  lower  forms  of  life  organic  perish 

When  the  conditions  change  from  whence  they  sprang; 

And  thus  have  many  races  disappeared 

Since  the  first  sensuous  child  of  earth  was  born. 

But  higher  forms  by  culture  are  improved, 

And  made  express  a  higher  form  of  life: 

The  rose  becomes  more  beautiful  in  form, 

The  savage  beast  more  gentle  in  its  nature; 

When  deadly  swamps  and  stagnant  pools  are  drained, 

Malaria  disappears,  and  healthful  plants 

Are  found  where  serpents  hissed  'mong  noxious  weeds. 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  465 

As  lower  beings  by  culture  are  improved, 
So,  by  the  same  means,  is  the  race  of  man; 
Since,  by  the  same  laws,  his  being  is  controlled. 

To  improve  his  plants  no  pains  the  florist  spares; 
And  on  his  blooded  stock  the  racing  sportsman 
Grudges  not  to  spend  his  time  and  millions, 
That  he  may  see  one  brute  outspeed  another 
But  by  the  measure  of  a  second 's  time, — 
While  the  creative  law  he  disregards 
Which  to  his  own  offspring  their  being  gives! 

When  man  shall  learn  to  heed  the  voice  of  Reason; 

To  seek  for  pleasure  in  the  path  of  Wisdom; 

That  o'er-indulgence  bears  a  deadly  sting, 

And  selfish  pleasure  ever  brings  a  curse — 

And  when  he  further  learns  that  purest  pleasure 

Springs  from  unselfish  acts  of  kindness  done, — 

That  no  human  being  independent  is, 

Or  can  himself  divorce  from  Nature's  laws, — 

Then  will  dawn  the  day  millennial,  foreseen 

By  ancient  seer,  when  guilt  and  crime  will  cease 

On  earth,  and  it  may  be  a  Paradise! 

STUDENT. 

Could  not  man  so  by  Nature  have  been  formed 
As  to  be  free  from  the  besetting  ills 
Which  on  life's  journey  him  so  sorely  scourge 
That  oft  he  lays  the  heavy  burden  down, 
And  seeks  repose  in  self-destruction  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

If  beings  by  special  act  created  were, 

As  forms  of  beauty  are  from  marbles  wrought, 

And  pictures  bright  are  on  the  canvas  drawn, — 

Then  might  a  rose  be  born  without  a  thorn; 

A  rosy  cloud  without  a  stagnant  pool, 

(From  whence  it  sprang  to  greet  the  morning  sun); 

Then,  man  on  earth,  might  be  an  angel  born! 

But  Nature  ever  works  by  laws  progressive, 

As  everywhere  is  shown,  where'er  we  look. 


466  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

In  highest  regions  of  extremes!  light, 
And  where  Cimmerian  gloom  in  darkness  sleeps, 
Eternal  silence  dwells  in  dreamless  rest. 
Between  these  extremes  is  found  all  active  life! 

No  picture  e'er  was  wrought  with  light  alone, 
Nor  can  the  brow  of  night  be  darker  made; 
All  paintings  are  by  color-contrast  wrought, 
And  moral  pictures  must  show  light  and  shade. 

If  man  created  were  in  highest  realm, 
Where  no  shade  of  sorrow  e'er  upon  him  fell, 
Then  Hope  would  never  sing;  nor  gentle  Pity 
E'er  sigh  and  shed  a  tear  on  Sorrow's  head; 
Nor  soft-eyed  Charity,  with  gentle  hand, 
E'er  soothe  the  suffering  sons  of  want. 
Nought  of  the  angelic  virtues  could  he  know 
Which  now  adorn  and  grace  his  moral  nature; 
Hence,  to  make  him  perfect  as  a  moral  being. 
The  furnace  must  be  passed  of  suffering. 

STUDENT. 

Then,  the  apparent  discords  found  on  earth 
Do  not  disturb  the  sounding  harmonies 
Which  ever  roll  from  Nature's  mighty  anthem  > 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

No  more  than  does  the  falling  autumn  leaf 
Disturb  the  motion  of  this  rolling  orb! 
Or  raindrop  on  the  ocean's  heaving  breast 
Affect  the  flowing  of  its  mighty  tides! 

The  rolling  orb  obeys  unchanging  law; 

It  wakes  the  morn  and  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 

And  brings  the  seasons  at  their  proper  times; 

And,  in  obedience  to  inherent  law, 

The  wandering  atom  finds  its  appointed  place: — 

In  Nature's  deepest  caves  of  darkest  night; 

In  fiery  vortex  of  an  embryo  world, 

Or  'mid  the  ruins  of  a  worn-out  orb; 

In  sulphurous  flames,  or  locked  in  polar  ice; 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  467 

In  raging  storm,  or  on  the  evening  breeze; 
In  rugged  oak,  or  in  the  blooming  rose; 
In  serpent's  fang,  or  in  the  sage's  brain, — 
Impelled  by  its  inherent  spirit-life, 
It  ever  still  its  upward  course  pursues 
Towards  the  all-embracing  Source  of  Life, 
Where  forms  are  lost  in  all-reposing  Oneness! 

As  sap  ascends  from  root  to  emerald  leaf 
To  give  the  blooming  flower  its  life  and  beauty, — 
As  from  the  heart  the  crimson  current  flows 
And  to  the  body  gives  its  life  and  strength, — 
And  as  the  solar  beams  give  life  and  shape 
To  all  material  forms,  wherever  found, — 
From  glowing  Hermes,  on  the  solar  skirts, 
To  far-off  Neptune,  in  his  wintry  sphere, — 
So  the  Infinite  Source  of  life  and  being 
From  unapproache"d  realms  of  purest  light, 
Where  no  finite  being  can  self-conscious  dwell, 
Gives  life  and  form  to  all  that  being  has! 

From  this  Infinite  Source  no  discord  springs, 
More  than  from  Truth  sublime  is  Falsehood  born, 
Or  that  from  purest  light  can  darkness  spring. 

San  Francisco,  1891. 


468  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

CONVERSATION  VII. 

STUDENT    AND    ANCIENT   ONE. 

STUDENT. 

ONE  question  more  I  fain  would  ask  of  thee, 

O  dweller  of  sublimest  realms! 

Where  ends  the  onward  journey  of  the  soul, 

Beyond  the  confines  of  its  earthly  life  ? 

Still  onward  is  its  upward  flight,  until 

Identic  being  is  forever  lost 

In  an  infinite  ocean;  and  is  such 

The  end  of  conscious  being  ? 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

Son  of  Earth!  step  by  step  hast  thou  been  led 
Up  to  where  this  last  question  needs  is  asked, 
And  which  is  needs  the  last  that  can  be  asked; 
Since  nought  the  human  mind  can  grasp  beyond, 
While  still  it  sojourns  in  the  vales  of  earth. 
Now  lend  a  listening  ear,  while  I  explain 
What  I  may  know  and  thou  canst  comprehend 
Of  soul-existence  and  the  mysteries 
Of  spirit  incarnation. 

Pure,  formless  spirit  ne'er  created  was, 
And  hence  it  no  beginning  has  nor  end; 
Tnerefore,  with  reason,  the  Infinite  Spirit 
Is  symbolled  by  a  perfect  winged  sphere, 
Since  it  nor  ending  nor  beginning  has — 
And,  however  viewed,  it  ever  is  the  same; 
And,  by  however  many  planes  divided  is, 
Each//<z»£  by  a  circle  will  bounded  be; 
And  infinite  are  the  circles  it  contains. 

Now,  look  abroad  wherever  life  is  found! 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nature's  universe — 
From  lowest  form  to  that  of  highest  mould, 
From  humble  glowworm  up  to  flaming  sun, 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  469 

From  tiniest  insect  up  to  proudest  man, 

And  mark  the  myriad  forms  that  there  are  seen! 

In  all  is  spirit  incarnation  found, 

And  all  in  form  beginning  have  and  end. 

The  solar  orb  that  lights  the  azure  sky 

In  light  and  form  no  more  eternal  is 

Than  are  the  pictures  of  a  midnight  dream ; 

And  brow  of  sage  will  crumble  into  dust 

As  does  the  meanest  worm  he  treads  upon! 

Where  now  the  monstrous  forms  that  peopled  once 

The  ancient  oceans  of  primeval  earth  ? 

They  all  have  passed  away,  nor  record  left, 

Save  what  is  found  in  the  historic  rock. 

Yet  lived  they  not  in  vain;  but  just  as  well 

Their  task  performed  in  Nature's  workshop  vast 

As  moral  beings  of  the  highest  form; 

Nor  perished  has  the  life  that  bade  them  toil, 

A  dwelling  to  prepare  for  higher  forms, — 

But  active  is,  in  other  forms  of  being, 

Some  end  to  reach  in  Nature's  fixed  design. 

All  forms  their  circles  of  existence  have, 
In  which  they  move,  some  labor  to  perform 
In  Nature's  lab'ratory  of  Creation; 
Which,  when  accomplished  is,  the  form  itself 
To  implement  of  higher  use  is  changed. 

Observe  the  circling  being  of  the  plant: 

From  seed  is  born  the  stem,  and  leaf,  and  flower; 

And  from  the  flower  is  born  again  the  seed! 

And  this  completes  the  being  of  the  plant — 

No  higher  can  it  reach  in  form.    The  seed 

To  earth  returns,  another  plant  to  form! 

From  seed  to  stem,  and  branch,  and  leaf,  and  flower 

(The  fragrant  cradle  of  an  embryo  plant), 

Thus  it  fulfils  the  object  of  its  being — 

Food  to  prepare  for  higher  forms  of  life. 

Upon  a  tender  leaf  the  winged  moth 

Its  offspring  leaves,  in  shape  of  tiny  egg — 


470  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

The  summer  sunbeams  on  it  fall,  and  lo! 
A  worm  is  born,  which  feeds  upon  the  leaf- 
As  worm,  it  lives  its  full  appointed  time, 
At  end  of  which  it  weaves  a  fitting  shroud, 
In  which  (as  worm)  it  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death; 
Hut  to  again  be  born  as  butterfly! 
A  while  to  sport  upon  the  summer  breeze; 
To  leave  an  embryo  of  its  kind,  and  die; 
And  thus  the  circle  of  its  being  ends. 
It  reached  in  form  perfection  of  its  kind, 
And  could  no  higher  climb  the  scale  of  being 
In  fragile  form  of  gaudy  butterfly. 

And  thus  it  is  with  all  organic  forms 
Below  the  realms  where  Reason  holds  her  court, 
They  reach  in  form  perfection,  greater  far 
Than  e'er  is  found  among  the  race  of  man. 

Nor  in  organic  life  alone  is  seen 
The  workings  of  this  universal  law: 
Waked  by  the  beams  of  the  all-ruling  sun, 
The  viewless  vapors  from  the  ocean  rise 
Towards  the  azure  of  the  arching  heavens! 
The  cloud  is  born;  the  forked  lightnings  flash; 
The  thunder  speaks,  and  bids  the  cloud  descend 
In  showers  of  rain  upon  the  thirsty  earth; 
The  mountain  streams  are  formed,  and  rivers  flow, 
Which  seek  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  deep, 
In  which,  for  a  time,  they  in  sleep  are  lost, — 
But  to  be  born  anew  as  vapory  cloud! 

STUDENT. 

The  lower  orders  of  creation,  then, 

Are  not  endowed  with  spirit-life  that  lives 

Beyond  the  limits  of  their  earthly  being  ? 

ANCIENT  ONE. 

No  spirit-life,  or  force,  was  ever  lost; 
Nor  was  material  essence  e'er  destroy 
For  in  essential  being  all  eternal  is; 


IMA  GINAR  y     CON  VERSA  TIONS.  47 1 

And  form  alone,  by  change,  will  pass  away 

As  melts  the  cloud  upon  the  summer  sky. 

Matter  but  a  condition  is  of  what 

In  essence  as  eternal  is  as  force  ; 

But  countless  are  the  forms  which  it  may  take, 

As  pictured  language  of  Eternal  Thought 

Expressed  by  incarnation  in  material  forms. 

The  humblest  creature  in  the  scale  of  being 

Is  warmed  by  all-pervading  spirit-life, 

And  with  thought  endowed  to  suit  its  nature; 

Whether  it  be  instinct  called  or  reason, 

It  nought  affects  the  workings  of  the  law; 

And  this  eternal  is  as  loftiest  thought 

That  lights  a  sage's  or  an  angel's  brow. 

Like  all  the  humbler  offspring  of  the  earth, 
Man,  too,  his  circle  of  existence  runs; 
Which,  though  it  bounded  is,  is  vaster  far 
Than  that  of  aught  below  him,  born  of  earth ; 
For  he  has  reached  the  realm  of  moral  being, 
And  Reason  sheds  her  light  upon  his  brow! 

All  being  in  the  realm  of  Soul  or  Passion 
Must  active  periods  have,  and  of  repose  : 
A  night  of  rest  succeeds  a  day  of  toil; 
At  eve  the  flow'ret  folds  its  leaves,  and  sleeps; 
Cold  Winter  bids  the  Summer  rest  from  toil, 
And  man  in  silent  slumber  seeks  repose. 
Man,  therefore,  his  circle  has  of  moral  being; 
Since  he  at  last  must  reach  a  point  where  Hope 
Will  fall  asleep  upon  Fruition's  breast; 
Will  cease  to  sing,  and  point  with  rosy  hand 
To  some  still  brighter  future;  and  gentle  Love 
No  longer  bid  him  seek  companionship — 
Then,  for  a  time,  the  soul  must  fall  asleep, 
To  wake  again  in  some  inferior  realm, — 
And,  incarnated  in  material  life, 
Again  inform  express  infinite  thought ! 


472  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

STUDENT. 

How  long,  as  measured  by  the  years  of  time, 
Will  this  progressive  journey  occupy? 
Or  can  it  measured  be  by  finite  mind  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

Mnemosyne,  with  her  recording  pen, 
No  record  e'er  has  made  of  time  so  long; 
Nor  measure  can  the  highest  number  known 
The  period  vast  as  marked  by  solar  time. 

The  end  is  reached — when  nothing  lies  beyond 
To  onward  lead  the  mind  in  search  of  knowledge! 

The  end  is  reached— when  backward  looks  the  soul 
O'er  the  tremendous  journey  it  has  passed, 
And  marks  the  lower  forms  in  which  it  dwelt 
In  its  ascent  towards  the  realms  of  light! 

The  end  is  reached— when  quickened  Memory 
Looks  down  the  vista  of  the  aeons  past, 
And  recalls  eternities  of  being 
Since  last  it  stood  upon  the  soundless  shore 
Of  that  Infinite  Deep  where  all  is  still- 
Where  longings  cease,  and  passion  falls  asleep, 
And  where  no  finite  being  e'er  can  dwell 
And  conscious  be  of  moral  attributes. 

STUDENT. 

This,  then,  is  nought  but  cold  annihilation, 
If  perish  all  the  moral  attributes — 
If  Love,  and  Hope,  and  every  passion  die— 
This,  then,  is  end  of  individual  being, 
And  the  soul  is,  therefore,  not  immortal  ? 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

When  earth  is  curtained  by  the  shades  of  night, 
In  sleep  her  weary  children  seek  repose; 
The  flower  folds  its  leaves,  and  bird  and  beast 
Forget  the  past  in  silent  slumbers  deep, 
Again  to  wake  to  life  at  morning's  dawn! 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  473 

In  sleep  profound,  the  past  is  all  forgot, 
Though  last  the  slumber  for  a  thousand  years  ! 
Or  for  the  hours  of  a  summer's  night — 
'T  is  to  the  dreamless  sleeper  all  the  same; 
Since  to  his  mind  has  not  one  moment  passed, 
For  time  alone  is  marked  by  changing  scenes  ; 
Where  form/ess  silence  reigns  no  time  exists. 

When  ended  is  the  term  of  earthly  life, 

And  worn  the  body  is  with  toil  and  age, 

Conies  then  the  night  of  death  to  earthly  life; 

The  transient  night  of  dreamless  sleep,  from  which 

The  soul  awakes,  as  wakes  the  winged  moth 

When  from  the  chrysalis  't  is  born  anew, 

And,  with  renewed  form  and  record  made 

In  earthly  life,  it  finds  its  proper  place; 

Just  as  the  fleecy  cloud  will  take  its  place 

In  the  clear  azure  of  the  summer  sky! 

Therefore,  the  restful  sleep  sought  by  the  soul 
At  end  of  cycles  vast  of  moral  being 
No  more  eternal  is  than  is  the  sleep 
The  weary  toiler  seeks  at  set  of  sun. 

STUDENT. 

Among  the  many  races  of  mankind, 
And  'mong  those  who  to  the  same  race  belong, 
Are  grades  of  intellectual  moral  being: 
Some  are  wise  and  good,  and  some  are  foolish ; 
Some  pleasure  take  in  acts  of  charity, — 
While  some  delight  in  acts  of  cruel  wrong; 
Some  wealth  and  earthly  honors  seek,  and  some 
Delight  to  tread  the  path  that  leads  to  knowledge. 
In  the  beyond  how  will  adjusted  be 
The  lots  of  those  who  thus  have  lived  on  earth  ? 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

The  moth  by  Nature  is  supplied  with  wings, 
On  which  to  sport  upon  the  summer  breeze! 
When  ended  is  its  humble  life  as  worm, 
It  sports  its  fleeting  heaven  away,  and  dies — 


474  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

Its  spirit-life  then  takes  another  form 
In  strict  obedience  to  imperious  law. 

But  man  has  reached  the  scale  of  moral  being, 

And  must  his  future  for  himself  prepare; 

He  has  no  wings,  as  has  the  summer  moth, 

On  which  to  reach  a  paradise  of  flowers; 

He  has  no  wings,  save  those  of  Thought  Divine, 

On  which  to  reach  the  home  of  Truth  and  Beauty! 

If  while  a  dweller  on  the  earthly  plane 

He  well  improve  his  time,  and  learn  to  soar 

On  wings  of  thought  to  higher  realms  than  earth, — 

Then,  when  he  breaks  the  prison  bars  of  Time, 

By  force  of  law  attractive  he  '11  ascend 

To  realms  for  which  he  has  himself  prepared; 

Just  as  the  rising  mist  will  seek  its  place 

As  rosy  cloud,  and  find  specific  rest. 

But  if  man,  while  he  sojourns  here  on  earth, 
Ne'er  look  above  the  sensual  plane  of  being, 
But  spend  his  time  in  seeking  sensual  pleasures, — 
In  gathering  wealth,  and  in  pursuit  of  fame, 
Alone  to  gratify  a  vain  ambition, — 
Then,  when  he  's  run  his  selfish  race  on  earth, 
And  is  compelled  to  leave  his  household  gods, — 
He  '11  reach  the  place  for  which  he 's  best  prepared- 
Just  as  water,  when  on  the  ground  't  is  poured, 
Will  find  its  natural  and  specific  level. 

This  is  as  certain  as  decrees  of  Fate; 

By  law  imperious  will  his  soul  be  bound 

In  sensual  chains,  which  he  himself  has  forged, 

And  which,  not  e'en  by  Mercy,  can  broken  be; 

For  Justice  ne'er  the  voice  of  Mercy  heeds. 

STUDENT. 

And  is  there  no  redemption  then  for  those 
Who,  while  on  earth,  have  failed  to  cultivate 
The  wings  of  Thought  Sublime,  on  which  to  soar 
To  the  high  realms  where  Love  and  Beauty  dwell? 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  475 

Are  they  in  darkness  ever  doomed  to  dwell 
Without  the  power  to  seek  for  higher  things  ? 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

The  spark  divine  that  animates  the  soul, 
Though  it  be  dimmed  by  vice  and  low  desire, 
Is  never  in  eternal  darkness  quenched; 
For  that  which  is  divine  is  never  lost! 

No  human  soul  can  reach  the  realm  sublime 
Where  Wisdom  reigns  and  Love  and  Beauty  dwell 
Unsullied  by  the  stains  of  earthly  life, 
Until  it  is  itself  as  pure  as  is  that  realm. 

When  one  has  spent  his  three-score  years  and  ten 

Of  life  upon  the  sensual  plane  alone, 

Has  wallowed  in  the  pool  of  beastly  lusts, 

Has  cruel  been,  and  lived  for  self  alone, — 

Has  laurels  won  deep-dyed  in  human  blood 

And  stained  with  widows'  and  with  orphans'  tears — 

Though  a  demigod  be  he  in  mental  power, — 

When  his  proud  empire  he  is  forced  to  leave, 

He,  like  a  scourged  hound,  will  trembling  go 

Down  to  the  realms  of  gloom,  with  all  the  debt 

Which  he  against  himself  recorded  has 

In  the  relentless  book  of  Justice  stern — 

And  there  remain,  till  by  himself  alone 

To  the  last  farthing  shall  the  debt  be  paid. 

From  this  just  law  no  being  can  escape; 
Nor  can  the  debt  be  paid  by  other  hand 
Than  that  of  him  who  did  the  debt  contract; 
But  when  the  debts  by  credits  balanced  are, 
Then  the  redeemed  soul  will  upward  rise 
Towards  the  home  of  Love  Divine! 

STUDENT. 

Canst  tell  how  long  the  one  thus  self-condemned 
Is  doomed  to  dwell  in  that  remorseful  gloom, 
Ere  he  may  expiate  the  wrongs  he  wrought 
While  dwelling  on  the  earthly  plane  of  life? 


476  IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

Degrees  there  are  of  moral  turpitude  - 
Where  little  grain  is  sown,  light  is  the  harvest; 
And  if  none  be  sown,  none  can  then  be  reaped. 

The  one  endowed  with  lofty  powers  of  mind, 
Who  from  effect  can  reason  back  to  cause, 
And  who  from  cause  can  prophesy  effect, 
Can  darker  crimes  and  greater  wrongs  commit 
Than  can  the  one  of  low  and  brutal  nature; 
And,  hence,  the  debt  will  ever  measured  be 
By  the  moral  nature  of  the  debtor. 

No  one  can  tell  the  time  it  may  require 

Beyond  the  limits  of  the  earthly  sphere 

For  a  degraded  soul  to  cleanse  itself 

From  the  slimy  filth  it  may  have  gathered 

In  its  prior  forms  of  life  incarnate; 

Or  what  penance  it  may  have  to  suffer, 

Or  further  incarnations  doomed  to  pass 

Ere  it  be  fit  to  take  a  higher  form, 

And  dwell  where  nought  is  found  to  soil  the  robes 

That  Truth  and  Beauty  wear  in  realms  sublime! 

But  however  long  the  toilsome  journey  be, 
It  must  be  trod  ere  the  high  goal  is  reached, 
Where,  cleansed  from  all  the  stains  of  earthly  life, 
The  self-redeemed  soul  will  find  a  home 
Where  angels  dwell. 

STUDENT. 

Then  spirit  incarnation  is  a  truth, 
And  it  may  be  repeated  oft  ? 

ANCIENT    ONE. 

The  soul  can  never  the  conditions  reach 
Of  abstract  spirit  and  still  its  passions  keep; 
More  than  can  picture  e'er  be  wrought  or  thought 
Can  be  expressed  without  material  aid; 
Or  dwellers  of  the  deep  can  breathe  the  air 
Made  vocal  by  the  songs  of  summer  birds; 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  477 

And  all  incarnated  being  needs  must 

Seasons  have  of  active  life,  and  so-called  death, 

Which  but  a  semblance  is  of  gentle  sleep. 

Where'er  we  look,  in  all  material  realms, 

All  forms  exist  through  spirit  incarnation; 

And  since  matter,  in  essence,  is  eternal, 

And  form  is  but  result  of  incarnation, — 

'Tis  manifest  that  spirit  incarnations 

May  as  countless  be,  and  as  varied,  too, 

As  are  the  pictures  wrought  by  light  and  shade, 

Or  by  the  notes  from  chords  of  music  born; 

And  that  they  may  repeated  be  as  long 

As  spirit-life  exist,  which  manifest  is  made 

Through  all  organic  forms,  wherever  found: 

The  bloom  that  tints  the  blushing  rose  may  once 

Have  given  the  sunset  cloud  its  golden  hue; 

And  sound  that 's  born  from  the  ^olian  chord 

May  once  have  waked  a  Homer's  epic  lyre, 

Or  echoed  been  in  hymn  by  angel  sung! 

And,  therefore,  incarnation  is  a  law 

Of  moral  being,  from  which  there 's  no  escape. 

The  loftiest  dweller  of  sublimest  realms, 

Whose  soul  possesses  moral  attributes 

An  incarnation  is  of  spirit-life; 

And  in  the  lower  realms  of  being,  too, 

Is  incarnation  seen,  where'er  we  look — 

The  rose  a  spirit  has  that  gives  it  form, 

As  has  the  loftiest  individual  being 

Who  from  effect  can  reason  back  to  cause. 

How  many  incarnations  there  may  be 

Of  spirit-life  that  gives  the  rose  its  form 

Ere  the  realm  be  reached  of  abstract  spirit, 

Not  I  can  say,  nor  thou  couldst  comprehend. 

STUDENT. 

Thy  teachings,  Ancient  One  (whoe'er  thou  art), 
Have  shed  some  rays  of  light  upon  my  mind. 
Dimly  to  comprehend  I  now  begin 
Such  mysteries  of  life  and  so-called  death, 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

And  of  the  mechanism  of  creation, 

As  can  be  grasped,  or  one  should  seek  to  learn 

While  shrouded  in  the  mists  of  earth  : 

That,  in  essence,  all  being  is  eternal; 

That  ever-changing  forms  expressions  are 

Of  all-pervading  and  infinite  mind, 

Which  spirit  is  of  all  that  being  has; — 

That  time,  and  place,  and  force,  and  good,  and  ill, 

Do  not  exist,  save  in  connection  with 

Material  forms  which,  in  essence,  are  eternal; 

That  every  moral  attribute  of  soul, 

And  every  atom  in  material  form, 

Are  portions  of  the  universal  whole — 

And  hence  that  spirit  and  material  form 

Exist  together,  and  eternal  are  in  essence! 

ANCIENT   ONE. 

Such  are  the  truths  sublime  that  Reason  teaches, 
As  may  be  learned  whene'er  we  wisely  read 
What  has  been  clearly  writ  in  Nature's  book. 

All  forms  material  limits  have  and  bounds; 
But  no  prison  bars  can  chain  Eternal  Thought, 
Nor  aught  can  clip  the  wings  on  which  it  flies, — 
Or  fix  a  limit  to  its  empire  wide, 
Save  coward  Fear,  or  Superstition's  chains — 
Its  empire  lies  where'er  its  wings  have  power 
To  bear  it  onward  in  the  search  of  truth; 
And  as  its  wings  increase  in  strength  by  use, 
Its  empire  widens  and  extends  its  bounds! 

All  forms  material  change  and  pass  away, 
As  changing  clouds  upon  the  summer  sky; 
They  fade  from  sight,  and  ne'er  are  seen  again, — 
But  Thought  Eternal  is,  as  Law, — divine. 

What  though  at  last  must  end  the  circle  vast 
Of  moral  being! 

At  that  transcendent  point, 
The  warder,  Memory,  backward  looks,  and  knows 


IMAGINARY    CONVERSATIONS.  479 

That  there,  in  aeons  past,  it  stood  before; 
And  Thought  Immortal  tells  that  yet  again 
In  some  far  future  it  there  will  conscious  be; 
And,  if  e'en  at  one  point  in  the  cycle  vast, 
The  past  be  all  recalled — the  whole  circle  seen — 
Then  is  nothing  lost  and  being  is  eternal ! 

0  seeker  of  the  Truth!  now  close  thine  eyes, 
And  in  a  dreamy  trance  shalt  thou  behold 

A   VISION    OF  THE    INFINITE. 

As  if  in  sleep,  'neath  the  curtains  of  night, 
My  spirit  was  borne  to  a  region  of  light, 
Where  breeze  never  blows,  nor  rain  ever  falls, 
Where  Hope  never  sings,  nor  Love  ever  calls. 

1  stood  at  a  point,  in  the  circle  sublime, 
Where  no  shadow  is  cast  on  the  dial  of  Time; 
Where  the  past  and  the  present  are  mingled  in  one,  — 
Where  one  cycle  of  being  eternal  has  run! 

As  I  glanced  down  the  deep,  with  an  all-seeing  eye, 
To  the  realms  where  forms  are  born  but  to  die, — 
To  a  region  of  change,  of  sunshine,  and  shade, 
Where  the  leaves  of  summer  in  autumn  must  fade, — 

I  saw  the  bright  galaxies  of  planets  and  suns 
That  mark  off  the  aeons  of  time  as  it  runs, 
And  sound  through  the  depths  of  the  infinite  sea 
The  minutes  and  the  hours  of  eternity. 

My  ear  caught  the  rhythm  as  it  floated  afar 
From  the  bright  rolling  orb,  and  the  clear-chiming  star, 
Till  it  mingled  with  the  song  that  the  wild  waters  sing, 
And  the  quick,  humming  sound  of  the  insect's  wing! 

I  felt  the  bright  waves  of  effulgence  that  roll 
From  the  pulses  that  spring  from  the  Infinite  Soul, 
Which  down  to  the  deeps  of  the  lowest  profound, 
Is  the  life  of  all  form,  and  the  soul  of  all  sound! 


48o  IM 'AGINARY    CONVERSATIONS. 

The  past  was  unrolled— and,  clear  to  my  eye, 
Was  spread  out  the  record  of  aeons  gone  by; 
I  saw  all  the  forms  through  which  I  had  passed, 
In  the  circle  of  one  day,  which  was  ended  at  last. 

Bright  Hope  was  asleep— all  passion  was  gone— 

My  being  was  left  with  Thought  all  alone, 

In  that  dread  region  of  silence  and  light 

Where  no  shadow  e'er  falls  from  the  black  wing  of  Night. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  silence,  I  hungered  again 
For  the  region  where  pleasure  is  mingled  with  pain; 
Where  the  sunshine  of  joy  is  shaded  by  sorrow, 
And  Hope  ever  sings  of  some  brighter  to-morrow! 

With  a  will  almighty,  in  slumbers  to  sink, 
Of  the  waters  of  Lethe  I  thought  me  to  drink, 
That  a  sleep  of  repose  and  rest  I  might  take- 
in  an  embryo  form  again  to  awake 

In  some  lower  realm  of  sunshine  and  storm 
Where  thought  takes  a  shape  and  passion  has  form; 
But  ere  the  cup  I  could  drink,  the  dream  fled  away 
In  the  bright,  rosy  beams  that  waked  the  young  day! 

City  of  Mexico,  1892. 


UHITBRSITr 


LOAN  DEFT 


YC   14487 


